I     LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 

?       SAN  DIEGO       : 


The  Secret   Life 


THE 

SECRET  LIFE 

BEING 

THE  BOOK  OF 
A    HERETIC 


"  Prove  all  things  :  hold  fast  that  which  is  good." 

St.  Paul)  I* TAessalonians  v.  21. 

"  Ici  1'on  voulut  que  tout  fut  simple,  tranquille,  sans 
ostentation  d'esprit  ni  de  science,  que  personne  ne  se 
crdt  engage  a  avoir  raison,  et  que  1'on  fut  toujours  en 
etat  de  ct4der  sans  honte,  surtout  qu'aucun  systeme  ne 
dominat  dans  1' Academic  i  1'exclusion  des  autres,  et 
qu'on  laissat  toujours  toutes  les  portes  ouvert  a  la 
verite,"  Fontendle. 


LONDON:    JOHN    LANE.     THE    BODLEY    HEAD 
NEW  YORK  :  JOHN  LANE  COMPANY.  MDCCCCVII 


Copyright,   1906 
BY   JOHN    LANE   COMPANY 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

L'Enfant  Terrible  i 

An   Optimistic   Cynic       ...  7 
A  Poet  Sheep-rancher      .          .          .10 

An  Eaten  Cake       ....  13 

Concerning  Elbows  on  the  Table     .  16 

An  Autumn  Impulse        .          .  17 

John-a'-Dreams       ....  19 

The   Fountain  of  Salmacis      .          .  41 
Two  Siegfrieds        .          .          .          .44 

A  Door  Ajar  .....  47 

At  Time  of  Death  ....  49 

The   Curse   of  Babel      ...  49 

The  Fourth  Dimension     ...  52 

The  Ant  and  the  Lark     ...  58 

The    Doppelganger          ...  63 

"A  Young  Man's  Fancy"       .          .  73 

An  Arabian  Looking-glass        .          .  78 

The  Cry  of  the  Women  ...  80 

The  Beauty  of  Cruelty    ...  95 

The  Duke  of  Wellington's  Trees       .  101 
The  Boy  with  the  Goose         .          .103 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

A  God  Indeed  .  .  .  .104 
A  Question  of  Skulls  .  .  .no 
The  Modern  Woman  and  Marriage  112 
The  Ideal  Husband  .  .  .120 
A  New  Law  of  Health  .  .  1 26 

"Dead,  Dead,  Dead"  .  .  .139 
Verbal  Magic  .  .  .  .140 
Hamlet  .....  143 

Ghosts  .....     149 

Amateur  Saints       .         .         .  153 

The    Zeitgeist          .          .         .  159 

The  Abdication  of  Man  .         .         .187 

Life 205 

Portable  Property   ....     206 

Are  American  Parents  Selfish  ?          .     208 
A  Question  of  Heredity  .          .          .219 
The   Little   Dumb   Brother      .         .     220 
Fever   Dreams         ....     248 

A  Misunderstood  Moralist       .          .     250 
The  Pleasures  of  Pessimism    .          .     255 
Moral  Pauperism     ....     257 

On   a  Certain   Lack  of  Humour  in 

Frenchmen       ....     258 

The  Value  of  a  Soul       .         .          .     267 
A  Grateful  Spaniard       .         .         .271 
Bores     ......     271 

vi 


CONTENTS 


Emotions  and  Oxydization 

Abelard   to   Heloi'se 

Heloi'se   to   Abelard 

Yumei  Mujitsu        .... 

The  Real  Thing      .... 

"Oh,    Eloquent,    Just,    and    Mighty 

Death" 

"  Philistia,  be  Thou  Glad  of  Me  "      . 

"Oh  King,  Live  Forever!" 

The  Little  Room     .... 

Aftermath 


PAGE 

273 

275 

277 

279 
284 

286 
299 
305 

307 
312 


Vll 


THE    SECRET    LIFE 


JUNE  21. 

"The  very  Devil's  in  the  moon  for  mischief: 
There's  not  a  day,  the  longest,  not  the  twenty-first  of  June, 
Sees  half  the  mischief  in  a  quiet  way 
On  which  three  single  hours  of  moonlight  smile." 

AT  my  age,  alas!  one  no  longer  gets  into 
mischief,  either  by  moonlight  or  at  mid 
summer,  and  yet  to-day  all  the  L'Enfant 
tricksey  spirits  of  the  invisible  Terrible, 
world  are  supposed  to  be  abroad  —  tan 
gling  the  horses'  manes,  souring  the  milk 
maid's  cream,  setting  lovers  by  the  ears. 
Some  such  frisky  Puck  stirs  even  peaceable 
middle-aged  blood  at  this  season  to  mild 
little  secret  sins,  such  as  beginning  a  diary 
in  which  to  set  down  one's  private  naughty 
views — the  heresies  one  has  grown  too  staid 
and  cautious  to  give  speech  to  any  longer. 

All,  I  think,  have  some  Secret  Garden 
where  they  unbind  the  girdle  of  conven 
tions  and  breathe  to  a  sympathetic  listener 
the  opinions  they  would  repudiate  indig- 


THE   SECRET  LIFE 


nantly  upon  the  housetops;  but  I  know 
of  no  such  kindred  soul  —  indeed  my 
private  views  are  so  heretical  that  I 
should  tremble  to  whisper  them  even  into 
the  dull  cold  ear  of  night,  lest  I  should 
cause  it  to  turn  pink,  and  thereafter  hymns 
would  not  purge  it.  Hence  no  resource 
remains  to  ease  my  bosom  of  its  perilous 
stuff  but  the  unprotesting  innocence  of 
the  blank  pages  of  a  diary. 

There  is  a  story  concerning  the  king  of 
some  ungeographical  country,  to  whom 
came  two  adventurers  of  cynical  tenden 
cies,  professing  to  be  able  —  given  a  cer 
tain  allowance  of  jewels  and  precious 
metals  —  to  weave  a  garment  of  exceeding 
richness  and  of  such  subtle  texture  that 
no  monarch  on  earth  might  hope  to  match 
it.  Setting  up  a  loom  and  providing  them 
selves  with  ample  materials  from  the  Royal 
treasury,  they  went  through  the  motions  of 
stringing  a  warp  and  thereupon  industri 
ously  threw  empty  shuttles  back  and  forth. 

When  the  king,  accompanied  by  his  court, 
was  summoned  to  observe  the  progress  of 
the  famous  web,  the  puzzled  ruler  could 
see  nothing  but  an  empty  loom,  but  before 

2 


THE  SECRET  LIFE 

the  eager  explanations  of  the  enthusiastic 
weavers,  who  pointed  out  here  a  glowing 
dye,  there  a  splendid  pattern,  and  having 
regard  to  the  non-committal  countenances 
of  the  courtiers,  the  king  nodded  sagely 
and  waited  developments. 

"Best  of  all,  Sire/'  cried  the  cheerful 
rogues,  "so  magical  is  this  robe  we  weave, 
that  only  those  can  see  it  whose  tongue 
has  never  uttered  a  lie,  whose  hands  have 
never  taken  a  bribe." 

Rises  thereupon  instant  chorus  of  praise 
of  the  beautiful  fabric  from  a  unanimous 
court.  Next  day  a  solemn  procession 
through  the  streets  of  the  capital  to  dis 
play  to  the  world  the  magic  robe.  Amazed 
multitude  staring  at  the  king  in  pompous 
dishabille,  but  hearing  the  courtiers'  ad 
miring  cries,  no  man  willing  to  admit  his 
own  blindness  —  when  up  speaks  Tire 
some  Child:  "Mother,  why  does  the  king 
ride  abroad  in  his  shirt  ?" 

General  outburst  of  mortified  veracity, 
and  futile  search  for  the  discreetly  vanished 
adventurers. 

So  ends  the  story.  But  nothing  of  the 
sort  really  took  place.  Instead,  1'enfant 

3 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

terrible  was  slapped  and  put  to  bed,  to 
meditate  upon  his  ill-timed  outspokenness, 
and  next  day,  and  all  the  days  thereafter, 
sees  what  his  companions  see.  I  know, 
because  I  myself  am  that  Tiresome  Child, 
and  because  my  uncomfortable  eyes  refuse 
to  see  the  imaginary  robe  in  which  so  many 
kings  of  this  world  are  dressed  I  have 
spent  a  large  part  of  my  life  in  disgrace. 
At  last  and  tearfully  I  have  learned  to 
hold  my  tongue,  but  when  the  tricksome 
spirits  of  Mid-summer  Eve  are  abroad,  I 
get  out  pen  and  paper  and,  where  no  pious 
ear  can  be  violated,  secretly  vent  my  elderly 
naughtinesses.  My  respectable  acquaint 
ances  will  be  all  the  safer  in  consequence 
that  I  have  an  inviolable  confidant  of  the 
real  thoughts  that  lie  behind  my  but  slightly 
wrinkled  brow  and  unrevealing  eyes. 
Thackeray  once  said,  "If  women's  eyes 
could  only  be  dragged,  what  queer  things 
one  might  learn."  .  .  .  Ah,  the  Secret 
Life! — who  among  us  can  guess  at  the 
thoughts  that  are  concealed  behind  the 
clear  brows  and  frank-seeming  eyes  of  even 
those  nearest  us  ? 

We  live  our  lives  draped  and  masked 
4 


THE  SECRET  LIFE 

in  our  own  bodies;  forcing  those  bodies  to 
speak  the  words,  perform  the  actions  ex 
pected  from  them,  while  we  dwell  alone 
within,  thinking  and  wishing  what  we 
never,  or  rarely,  express.  It  is  this  that 
drives  us  to  diaries  —  the  need  to  some 
where,  somehow,  speak  the  truth  in  a  world 
of  conformable  lies.  It  is  of  no  use  to 
slip  aside  our  masks  or  raise  our  dra 
peries  for  an  instant,  in  the  hope  that  our 
fellows  will  recognize  a  hand  or  an  eye  like 
their  own,  and  that  thereupon  even  one 
of  our  companions  will  invite  us  to  come 
out  from  under  our  robe  and  walk  about 
with  him  friendlily,  without  disguise.  In 
stead  our  companion  makes  signs  of  dis 
tress  and  resentment  through  the  veil  of 
his  concealment,  and  we  hastily  readjust 
the  mask  and  domino  and  resist  further 
temptation  to  find  a  heart  akin. 

"It  takes,"  says  Thoreau,  "two  to  tell 
the  truth  —  one  to  speak  and  another  to 
hear." 

Called  upon  once  to  help  a  grief-stricken 
mother  to  lay  away  the  belongings  of  a  boy 
summoned  suddenly  out  of  life,  we  un 
earthed  among  his  abandoned  treasures 

5 


THE   SECRET  LIFE 

a  curious  collection  of  odds  and  ends  con 
cerning  which  we  could  imagine  no  value 
that  should  have  moved  him  to  keep  them 
by  him.  A  shell,  a  bit  of  ribbon,  a  rusty 
nail;  scraps  of  paper  with  a  scribbled  line 
or  two;  cuttings,  whose  printed  words  re 
ferred  to  nothing  which  seemed  to  bear  in 
any  way  upon  what  we  might  guess  of  as 
touching  his  life. 

"I  thought  I  knew  every  fibre  of  his 
heart,"  cried  the  mother  in  sudden  tears, 
"and  yet  of  all  these  strange  things  he 
seems  to  have  treasured  so  carefully  I  can 
not  divine  the  meaning  of  a  single  one!" 
A  whole  world  of  ambitions,  interests,  and 
sentiments  foreign  to  her  he  had  carried 
away  into  eternal  silence. 

If  I  shall  have  persistence  sufficient  to 
continue  this  Heretic  Diary,  I  am  afraid 
it  will  find  itself  stuffed  with  an  equally 
absurd  number  of  my  secret  loves  and 
hates,  of  the  intolerable  opinions  for  which 
I  have  been  slapped  and  put  to  bed,  of  all 
the  sentimental  rubbish  I  carry  about  with 
me  in  a  fardel  under  my  mask  and  domino 
—  the  poor  inconsequential  treasures  of  my 
secret  life. 

6 


THE   SECRET  LIFE 

JULY  7. 

Amiel's  Journal:  —  I  have  been  reading 
it  with  the  half  impatient  interest  which 
such  books  always  arouse  —  in  An 
me  at  least.  It  is  a  more  agreeable  Optimistic 
book,  however,  than  Marie  Bash- 
kirtseff's  disingenuous  posings,  or  Rous 
seau's  vulgar,  insulting  confidences.  One 
is  impatient  with  the  bore  who  talks  about 
himself  when  one  is  impatient  to  bore  him 
about  one's  own  self,  and  yet,  somehow, 
one  is  fascinated  by  the  hope  of  getting 
behind  the  mask  of  personality. 

I  learned  to  read  French  that  I  might 
possess  the  contents  of  the  "Confessions." 
George  Eliot  called  it  the  most  interesting 
book  she  knew,  which  fired  my  ambition 
to  read  it.  With  the  aid  of  a  dictionary, 
the  four  great  volumes  were  got  through 
somehow,  and  when  the  task  was  accom 
plished,  though  I  loathed  Rousseau,  I  had 
enough  French  to  serve  roughly  for  both 
reading  and  speech. 

What  ambition  and  courage  one  had  in 
those  days!  I  studied  French  while  I  did 
the  churning.  Remembering  the  strength 

7 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

and  persistency  of  that  time  I  wonder 
that  I  have  come  to  middle  age  and  done 
nothing.  Athletic  trainers  say  that  there 
is  in  every  one  only  a  fixed  capacity  for 
development.  One  may  reach  that  limit 
readily,  and  once  reached  no  toil  or  pa 
tience  will  ever  carry  the  power  of  the 
muscles  beyond  it  by  the  smallest  part  of 
a  fraction.  Mentally,  the  same  probably 
holds  good.  My  capacity  was,  no  doubt, 
always  small.  So  far  as  it  went  the  cramp 
ing,  unpropitious  circumstances  of  youth 
had  no  power  to  chill  it,  but  prosperity, 
leisure,  opportunity,  could  not  add  one 
jot  to  its  possibilities.  .  .  . 

In  all  these  journals  what  I  find  inter 
esting  is  not  so  much  what  the  writer  says 
as  what  he  reveals  unintentionally. 

The  impression  Amiel  leaves  upon  the 
reader  is  that  he  was  at  least  a  gentleman 
—  that  he  had  a  gentle  soul;  clean  and 
modest,  continent  and  grave.  His  mel 
ancholy  seems  neither  so  profound  nor 
so  touching  as  Mrs.  Humphrey  Ward  and 
his  other  critics  would  have  one  believe. 
At  least  it  is  neither  tragic  nor  torturing. 
He  gives  the  impression  of  saying  "I  have 

8 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 


no  bread  —  but,"  he  adds  cheerfully,  after 
a  moment's  reflection,  "the  Lord  will 
provide." 

He  is  not  rebellious.  In  moments  of 
the  most  real  gravity,  when  he  is  face  to 
face  with  death,  he  clings  to  the  egotistic 
superstition  that  perhaps  —  most  probably 
-  there  is  somewhere  some  wise  kind 
Power  deeply  interested  in  his  doings,  his 
emotions,  his  future.  He  is  profoundly 
convinced  that  it  is  important  how  he 
feels,  how  he  bears  himself.  He  has  no 
sense  at  all  of  the  blind  nullity  of  things. 
He  asserts  this  nullity  to  be  unthinkable. 

All  this  is  surprising  when  one  remem 
bers  the  insistence  of  his  commentators 
upon  the  intense  modernity  of  his  mind. 
Is  this  modern  ?  I  cannot  see  wherein  it 
differs  from  the  spirit  of  the  past.  Such 
natures  were  not  uncommon  in  other  cen 
turies  —  as  was  the  nature  of  Erasmus  for 
example.  .  .  . 

The  man  had  no  passion.  He  did  not 
marry  because,  he  says,  he  demanded 
perfection;  could  not  find  or  give  it,  and 
therefore  resigned  himself  cheerfully  to 
celibacy.  Passion,  of  course,  would  have 

9 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

blinded  his  eyes  to  imperfections;  having 
none,  his  eyes  were  always  clear.  ...  It 
is  perhaps  in  this  passionlessness  that  he 
is  most  modern.  Most  of  us  no  longer 
demand  perfection.  Knowing  it  to  be  un 
attainable,  modern  common  sense  cheer 
fully  agrees  to  abandon  desire  for  it.  This 
is  visible  in  our  literature,  in  art,  in  love. 
No  one  reads  or  buys  long  poems  any  more, 
therefore  the  poets  never  contemplate  a 
new  Paradise  Lost.  No  one  paints  heroic 
pictures,  for  they  are  not  salable.  The 
grandiose  has  no  market  and  therefore 
grows  obsolete.  The  law  of  supply  and 
demand  rules  there  as  elsewhere.  Passion 
and  the  perfection  it  longs  and  strives  for 
is  demode. 

JULY  20. 

F is  dead,  and  with  the  announce 
ment  by  cable  this  morning  comes  a  belated 
A  Poet  letter  from  M—  — ,  full  of  hope  and 
Sheep-  encouragement.  A  sudden  rally 
Ler'  had  made  her  believe  in  a  possi 
bility  of  recovery  —  no  doubt  it  was  that 
last  flare  which  comes  often  just  as  the 
oil  fails  and  the  light  is  about  to  go  out. 

10 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

My  mind  has  been  full  of  amazement 
all  day.  It  is  so  difficult  to  realize  that  a 
strong,  aggressive  personality  is  finally  and 
definitely  extinguished.  I  have  been  think 
ing  of  their  odd,  romantic  story.  He  must 
have  had  great  seductive  power  —  not 
easily  realizable  now  —  to  have  come  into 
her  life  and  have  persuaded  her  to  abandon 
everything  to  follow  him.  I  have  heard 
her  tell  the  story  often.  The  tall  young 
sheep-rancher  from  New  Zealand,  with 
his  burning  eyes  and  his  pockets  full  of 
sonnets,  appearing  one  morning,  and  she 
suddenly  abandons  her  brilliant  position, 
her  jointure,  her  two  orphan  boys,  and  goes 
away,  despite  the  furious  outcries  of  her 
family  and  friends,  with  a  man  seven  years 
her  junior;  goes  into  the  wilderness  with 
him,  New  Zealand  of  more  than  a  quarter 
of  a  century  ago  being  decidedly  wilder 
ness,  yet  she  calls  those  the  happiest  years 
of  her  life  —  spent  in  a  shanty  fifty  miles 
from  the  nearest  neighbour!  She  likes  to 
recall  the  wild  scrambles  among  the  moun 
tains;  the  wrestles  to  save  the  sheep  from 
the  spring  floods;  the  vigils;  the  dances 
to  which  they  rode  on  mountain  ponies, 

ii 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 


sixty  or  seventy  miles;  the  makeshifts;  the 
caring  for  flocks  and  shepherds  in  the  stress 
of  heat  and  cold,  of  sickness  and  sorrow; 
and  the  snow-bound  nights  beside  the  fire, 
when  the  sonnets  came  to  the  fore  again. 
After  all  it  was  youth,  and  love,  and  adven 
ture;  why  shouldn't  she  have  been  happy? 
And  she  was  justified  in  her  faith.  When 
I  came  to  know  them  the  detrimental 
young  sheep-rancher  moved  in  a  world 
of  gilded  aides-de-camp,  with  sentries  and 
mounted  escorts  attending  his  steps,  sur 
rounded  by  tropical  pomp  and  spacious 
luxury,  and  now,  alas!  he  is  but  one  more 
unit  in  the  yearly  tribute  of  flesh  and 
blood  demanded  by  England's  Equatorial 
Empire. 

A  handsome,  brilliant,  charming  crea 
ture.  The  generation  is  the  poorer  for 
the  loss  of  his  graceful,  cynical  wit.  He 
belonged  to  the  generation  who  formed 
their  ideals  of  manners  upon  Pelham  and 
Vivian  Grey.  It  was  Byronism  translated 
into  prose.  M says  he  bore  his  suf 
ferings  —  enormous  sufferings  —  with  the 
light  and  humorous  courage  with  which 
it  was  the  ideal  of  the  fine  gentleman  of 

12 


THE   SECRET  LIFE 


his   period   to   face   all    unpleasant    situa 
tions. 

SEPTEMBER  4. 

The  S — s  came  in  last  night  after  dinner. 
They  cling  to  the  old  fashion,  common  in 
England  before  the  advent  of  An  Eaten 
afternoon  tea,  of  having  the  tray  Cake- 
brought  in  about  ten  o'clock,  so  I  tried 
it  to-night  because  of  them,  and  found  it 
not  a  bad  idea. 

Simple,  agreeable  folk  they  are,  of  what 
is  called  in  Scotland  the  middle  classes. 
That  is  to  say,  they  follow  some  commercial 
calling:  I  am  not  sure  of  its  exact  nature. 
They  are  very  well  educated  in  just  the 
way  which  differentiates  the  British  middle- 
class  education  from  the  other  sort  —  they 
speak  several  modern  languages  fluently, 
and  know  little  of  the  classics.  All  their 
learning  is  sound,  unornamental,  utilitarian. 
Some  reference  was  made  to  a  kinsman 
in  a  foreign  town  which  I  had  visited.  I 
could  not  recall  any  association  with  the 
name  until  the  elder  brother  said  quite 
simply  and  without  any  self-consciousness: 

"He  is  Jones  of  Jones   &  Co.  (a  large 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

haberdasher  in  P )  —  you  may  have 

been  in  his  shop." 

It  was  nicely  done.  I  doubt  if  an  Ameri 
can  could  have  achieved  it  in  quite  the 
same  way.  If  he  had  made  the  confidence 
it  would  have  been  made  with  bravado, 
or  he  would  have  explained  that  the  shop 
was  an  ''emporium." 

The  girl  has  such  a  good  restful  British 
calm  about  her  —  I  felt  it  after  she  was 
gone.  It  arises,  I  think,  from  lack  of 
any  special  interest  in  the  impression  she 
makes  upon  others.  All  the  rest  of  us  — 
we  Americans  —  were  desirous  of  being 
agreeable,  amusing  —  of  making  a  good 
effect.  We  were  consciously  sympathetic, 
consciously  vivacious,  consciously  civil. 
She  was  just  herself;  we  might  take  or 
leave  her  as  she  was.  It  never  occurred  to 
her  to  attempt  to  be  different  for  our  sakes. 
The  result  of  it  is  very  reposeful.  One  is 
always  conscious  of  a  sense  of  strain  in 
American  society  for  this  reason.  It  is 
because  of  that  desire  to  impress,  to  please, 
that  American  voices  in  conversation  grow 
sharp  and  hurried,  that  American  faces 
grow  keen  and  lined.  We  have  a  tradition 

H 


THE   SECRET  LIFE 

that  English  women  are  dull  and  bovine, 
but  no  doubt  they  make  the  better  mothers 
because  of  it.  They  hoard  their  energies 
to  give  to  their  sons.  They  bring  their 
children  into  the  world  with  deep  reserves 
of  strength.  I  have  often  observed  the 
great  superiority  of  English  men  over 
Americans  in  the  capacity  for  long,  sus 
tained,  unflinching  labour.  I  am  sure  they 
owe  that  to  the  immense  fund  of  unex 
hausted  power  given  them  by  their  mothers, 
who  are  profound  wells  of  calm  vitality. 
It  is  the  old  story  of  being  unable  to  eat 
one's  cake  and  have  it  too.  American 
women  eat  their  cake  in  the  form  of  a 
higher  exhilaration  in  existence,  but  when 
the  drain  of  creation  comes  they  have 
nothing  save  nervous  energy  to  give.  The 
rest  of  the  cake  has  already  been  devoured. 
There  are  no  reserves  for  the  child  to  call 
upon. 

I  believe  that  Englishmen  —  without 
reasoning  upon  the  matter  —  feel  this 
instinctively.  They  vastly  prefer  their  own 
women  as  mates.  I  have  rarely  known 
an  Englishman  to  marry  an  American 
woman  who  had  not  the  extrinsic  attrac- 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

tion  of  wealth.  They  do  not  hesitate  to 
marry  penniless  countrywomen  of  their 
own. 

SEPTEMBER  12. 

A was  here  to-day.  What  a  formal 

Concerning  little  soul  it  is!  She  can  never  be- 
Eibowson  gin  where  she  left  off.  One  has 
}  e'  her  acquaintance  to  make  all  over 
again  each  time  she  comes. 

The  depths,  the  heights  of  her  propriety! 
.  .  .  Always  that  extremely  well  behaved 

look,  which  never  changes.  P says, 

"A is  too  modest  to  take  off  and  put 

on  expressions  in  public." 

One  wonders  if  there  is  any  privacy  so 
entire  that  she  would  consider  dishevel- 
ment  of  behaviour  permissible.  How  ex 
hausting  to  herself  such  flawless  respect 
ability  must  become! 

She  is  the  concentrated  essence  of  the 
bourgeoisie.  A  savage  can  be  natural; 
he  knows  nothing  else,  but  when  his  eyes 
are  opened  and  he  sees  himself  to  be  naked 
the  reign  of  the  fig-leaf  begins.  There  is 
something  pathetic  in  that  long  era  of  pro 
found  distrust  of  his  own  nature  and  im- 

16 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

pulses.  What  does  he  think  he  would  do 
if  he  let  himself  go  ? 

Perhaps  he  is,  underneath  all  that  pro 
priety,  still  so  close  to  savagery  that  he 
dare  not  trust  himself  to  be  natural  lest 
he  instantly  relapse  into  barbarism.  After 
many  generations  of  breeding  he  dare  be 
savage  and  free  again  if  he  like  —  he  is  so 
sure  of  himself.  As  Mrs.  B—  -  says,  he 
becomes  at  last  "A  man  who  can  afford  to 
put  his  elbows  on  the  table." 

When  he  reaches  such  a  point  I  notice 
he  is  always  impatient  of  the  constraint 
of  those  still  bound  by  the  shackles  of  self- 
conscious  propriety,  forgetting  that  he  owes 
his  own  freedom  to  many  generations  that 
laboured  in  bonds,  struggling  to  slay  or 
subdue  the  savage.  .  .  . 

OCTOBER  14. 

A  bird  sat  on  the  balcony  rail  just  out 
side  my  window  to-day  gossiping  with  an 
unseen  neighbour  perched   some-     An 
where  out  of  my  range  of  vision.      Autumn 
He  was  rather  a  grimy  little  person, 
and  as  the  day  was  cold  he  made  a  perfect 
puff  ball  of  himself.     I   listened  to   them 

17 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

conversing  with  great  interest,  feeling,  as 
I  always  do  when  I  hear  birds  talk,  that  if 
I  only  paid  a  little  closer  attention  it  would 
be  possible  to  understand  all  they  say. 
It  is  somewhat  the  same  sensation  one  has 
in  overhearing  a  rapid  dialogue  in  French 
which  one  is  too  lazy  to  try  to  follow. 
When  I  came  through  I  think  I  left  some 
of  the  doors  ajar  behind  me,  and  I  remem 
ber  my  bird  avatar  especially  clearly.  Even 
yet,  when  autumn  comes,  I  am  pursued  by 
a  fluttering  longing  to  arise  and  go  south 
ward.  I  feel  that  something  beautiful  — 
some  wide  splendid  ecstasy  is  calling  me 
if  I  will  only  go  to  meet  it.  I  can  remem 
ber  having  that  sensation  in  my  earliest 
childhood.  In  my  dreams  I  often  fly,  with 
beautiful  swoopings  and  balancings,  with 
sudden  confident  droppings,  through  the 
elastic  air,  and  sometimes  I  am  in  an  en 
closed  place,  beating  my  wings  against 
the  bounds,  knowing  no  other  way  to  get 
out.  .  .  . 

When  I  look  at  birds  they  seem  to  know 
me.  Not  in  the  way  of  a  mere  creature 
who  puts  out  crumbs  in  convenient  break 
fasting  places,  or  who  brings  strawberries 

18 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

to  one's  cage,  but  they  meet  my  eye  with 
that  familiarity  one  sees  in  the  glance  of 
brothers  —  a  look  of  mutual  understand 
ing.  My  own  sense  is  of  kinship  of  the 
closest  character.  I  understand  how  they 
regard  things  —  what  they  think  and  feel. 
I  wish  I  could  so  concentrate  my  attention 
as  to  catch  what  this  grimy  little  citizen 
is  saying  to  his  fellow  on  the  nearby  ledge. 
If  I  could,  what  a  flood  of  other  memories 
it  would  restore  that  are  now  dim  and  con 
fused. 

NOVEMBER  i. 

I  dreamed  last  night  that  I  wore  upon 
my  breast  a  great  necklace  of  flat  golden 
plates  cut  in  the  shape  of  winged  john-a'- 
things,  and  these  were  linked  to-  Dreams, 
gether  with  other  flat  plates  of  turquoise. 
My  garments  were  of  white  semi-trans 
parent  stuff,  and  my  limbs  and  body 
showed  through  it.  Before  me  stood  a 
building  of  some  sort,  creamy  yellow  in 
colour  and  of  a  style  of  architecture  with 
which  I  am  not  familiar  —  though  it  seemed 
familiar  enough  to  me  in  my  dreams.  Now 
I  have  only  a  confused  sense  of  low  domes 

19 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

set  upon  massive  cubes.  I  was  waiting 
for  the  sun  to  rise.  The  air  was  warm 
and  dry  and  that  white  glamour  of  the 
dawning  light  lay  upon  the  surrounding 
country,  which  seemed  flat  and  not  very 
verdant.  Suddenly  the  rays  of  the  sun, 
which  rose  apparently  immediately  be 
hind  this  dome,  spread  out  about  it  like 
an  aureole  (Gavin  Douglas's  "Golden 
fanys")  — and  this  seemed  a  signal  for  me 
to  lift  my  arms  above  my  head  and  recite 
a  sort  of  litany  —  and  then  —  it  all  passed 
away.  .  .  . 

Most  of  one's  dreams  are  confused  and 
blurred  by  a  sense  of  conflicting  person 
alities.  There  is  generally  a  sort  of  impres 
sion  that  while  the  incidents  are  apparently 
happening  to  one's  self,  they  are  happening 
in  reality  to  some  other  being,  not  quite 
one's  self;  but  this  one  was  very  clear, 
with  no  arriere  pensee.  I  have  worked 
out  a  theory  which  seems  to  me  to  quite 
solve  the  mystery  of  dreams. 

Lifelong  familiarity  with  the  phenomena 
of  sleep  —  with  the  trooping  phantoms 
that  inhabit  slumber's  dusk  realm  —  has 
so  dulled  our  wonder  at  the  mystery  of 

20 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

our  double  existence  of  the  dark  that  night 
after  night  we  open  with  calm  incurious- 
ness  the  door  into  that  ghostly  underworld, 
where  we  hold  insane  revels  with  fantastic 
spectres,  babble  with  foolish  laughter  at 
witless  jests,  stain  our  souls  with  useless 
crime,  or  fly  with  freezing  blood  from  the 
grasp  of  unnamable  horrors,  and  with  the 
morning  we  saunter  serenely  back  from 
these  adventures  into  the  warm  precincts 
of  the  cheerful  day,  unmoved,  unstartled, 
and  forgetting. 

The  hypnotists,  because  they  can  make 
a  man  feel  pain  or  pleasure  without  ma 
terial  cause,  are  gaped  upon  with  awed 
surprise  by  the  same  man  who  once  every 
twenty-four  hours  of  his  life,  with  no  more 
magic  potion  than  healthy  fatigue,  with  no 
greater  weapon  for  wonder  working  than  a 
pillow,  may  create  for  himself  phantasmal 
illusions  beside  which  all  mesmeric  sugges 
tions  are  but  the  flattest  of  commonplace. 

The  naive  egotism  of  superstition  saw 
in  the  movements  of  the  solar  system  only 
prognostications  concerning  its  own  bean 
crop,  and  could  discern  nothing  in  the 
dream-world  but  the  efforts  of  the  super- 

21 


THE  SECRET  LIFE 

natural  powers  to  communicate,  in  their 
usual  shuffling  and  incompetent  fashion, 
with  man.  The  modern  revolt  from  this 
childishness  has  swung  the  pendulum  of 
interest  in  dreams  so  far  up  the  other  curve 
of  the  arc  that  there  seems  now  to  be  a 
foolish  fear  of  attaching  any  importance 
whatever  to  the  strange  experiences  of 
sleep,  and  as  a  result  an  unscientific  avoid 
ance  of  the  whole  subject.  The  conse 
quence  of  this  absurd  revulsion  is  that  in 
a  period  of  universal  investigation  one  of 
the  most  curious  functions  of  the  brain  is 
left  unexamined  and  unexplained. 

Some  dabbling  there  has  been,  with 
results  of  little  more  value  than  were  the 
contents  of  the  greasy,  bethumbed  dream- 
books  of  the  eighteenth-century  milkmaid 
or  apprentice.  The  labour  bestowed  upon 
the  matter  has  been  mainly  directed  to 
efforts  to  prove  the  extreme  rapidity  with 
which  dreams  pass  through  the  mind,  and 
that  it  is  some  trivial  outward  cause  at  the 
very  instant  of  awakening  —  such  as  a 
noise,  a  light,  or  a  blow  —  which  rouses 
the  brain  to  this  miraculous  celerity  of 
imaginative  creation. 

22 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

The  persistent  assertion  that  a  dream 
occurs  only  at  the  moment  of  awakening 
shows  how  little  real  attention  has  been 
given  to  the  matter,  since  the  most  casual 
observation  of  "the  dog  that  hunts  in 
dreams"  would  have  shown  that  he  may 
be  "chasing  the  wild  deer  and  following 
the  roe"  in  the  grey  Kingdom  of  Seeming 
without  breaking  his  slumbers.  He  will 
start  and  twitch,  and  give  tongue  after  the 
phantom  quarry  he  dreams  he  is  pursuing, 
and  yet  continue  his  sleep  without  an 
interval.  But  have  it  whichever  way  one 
likes,  the  heart  of  the  mystery  is  not  yet 
discovered.  How  do  they  explain  why  a 
noise  or  a  gleam  of  light  —  such  as  the 
waking  senses  know  familiarly  —  should 
at  this  magical  moment  of  rousing  cause 
the  brain  to  create  with  inconceivable 
rapidity  a  crowd  of  phantasmagoria  in 
order  to  explain  to  itself  the  familiar  phe 
nomena  of  light  and  sound  ? 

Dr.  Friederich  Scholz,  in  his  recent 
volume  upon  "Sleep  and  Dreams,"  gives 
an  example  of  rapid  effort  of  the  mind  to 
explain  the  sensations  felt  by  the  sleeping 
body: 

23 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

"I  dreamed  of  the  Reign  of  Terror,  saw 
scenes  of  blood  and  murder,  appealed 
before  the  Revolutionary  Tribunal,  saw 
Robespierre,  Marat,  Fouquier-Tinville,  all 
the  personages  of  that  time  of  horrors, 
argued  with  them,  was  finally,  after  a  num 
ber  of  occurrences,  condemned  to  death, 
was  carried  to  the  place  of  execution  on  a 
cart  through  enormous  masses  of  people, 
was  bound  by  the  executioner  to  the  board. 
The  knife  fell  and  I  felt  my  head  severed 
from  my  body.  Thereupon  I  awoke  and 
found  that  a  loosened  rod  of  the  bed  had 
fallen  on  my  neck  like  the  knife  of  the 
guillotine,  and  this  had  happened,  my 
mother  assured  me,  at  the  very  moment 
when  I  awoke."  .  .  . 

That  the  mind  should,  merely  because 
of  the  body's  sleep,  be  able  to  create  a  whole 
scene  of  a  terrible  drama  with  a  rapidity 
impossible  when  all  the  functions  are  awake 
and  active  is  incredible.  The  only  function 
of  the  brain  capable  of  this  lightning-like 
swiftness  of  vision  is  memory.  To  create 
requires  a  certain  effort,  consumes  a  certain 
period  of  time,  but  a  scene  once  beheld, 
an  adventure  once  experienced  and  vividly 

24 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

impressed  upon  the  memory,  can  be  re 
called  in  its  minutest  details  in  a  period 
of  time  too  short  to  be  reckonable. 

That  the  sensitive  plate  of  the  brain 
never  loses  any  clear  picture  once  received, 
has  been  demonstrated  beyond  doubt.  The 
picture,  the  sensation,  may  be  overlaid 
and  hidden  for  a  long  time  beneath  the 
heaps  of  useless  lumber  that  the  days  and 
years  accumulate  in  the  mind's  storehouse, 
but  need  or  accident,  or  a  similarity  of 
circumstance,  will  bring  the  forgotten  be 
longing  to  light  —  sometimes  with  start 
ling  effect.  There  is  the  well-known  in 
stance  of  a  girl  who,  during  an  attack  of 
fever  delirium,  spoke  in  a  language  that 
no  one  about  her  could  understand.  In 
vestigation  proved  it  to  be  Welsh  —  a  lan 
guage  of  which,  both  before  and  after  her 
illness,  she  was  totally  ignorant.  Further 
investigation  showed  that  being  born  in 
Wales  she  had  understood  the  tongue  as  a 
very  little  child,  but  had  afterwards  com 
pletely  forgotten  it. 

It  is  commonly  known  that  in  the  struggle 
of  the  body  against  death  by  water,  the 
memory,  stirred  to  furious  effort,  produces 

25 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

all  her  stores  at  once  —  probably  in  the 
frantic  endeavour  to  find  some  experience 
which  may  be  of  use  in  this  crisis. 

It  is  often  broadly  asserted  that  the 
memory  retains  each  and  every  experience 
which  life  has  presented  for  its  contem 
plation,  but  this  is  hardly  true.  The 
memory  makes  to  a  certain  extent  a  choice, 
and  chooses  oftentimes  with  apparent  ca 
price.  To  demonstrate  the  truth  of  this, 
let  one  endeavour  to  recall  the  first  impres 
sion  retained  by  his  childish  mind  and  it 
usually  proves  to  be  something  extremely 
trivial.  My  own  first  clear  memory  is  a 
sense  of  the  comfort  to  my  tired  little  two- 
year-old  body  of  the  clean  linen  sheets  of 
the  bed  at  the  end  of  a  perilous  and  adven 
turous  journey,  of  whose  startling  inci 
dents  my  memory  preserved  only  one. 
Often  this  capricious  faculty  will  seize 
upon  some  few  high  lights  in  a  vivid  picture 
and  reject  all  the  unimportant  details. 
As  a  rule,  however,  it  is  the  profound 
stirring  of  the  emotions  which  wakes  the 
memory  to  activity.  A  woman  never  for 
gets  her  first  lover.  A  man  to  the  end  of 
his  life  can  recall  his  first  triumph,  or  his 

26 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

most  imminent  danger,  and  a  trifle  will 
often,  after  the  lapse  of  half  a  century, 
fill  the  eye  with  tears,  make  the  cheek  burn, 
or  the  heart  beat  with  the  power  of  the 
long-passed  emotion,  preserved  living  and 
fresh  by  the  memory. 

That  the  memory  uses  in  sleep  the 
material  it  has  gathered  during  the  day, 
and  during  the  whole  life,  no  dreamer  will 
deny;  but  here  again  it  is  capricious;  some 
parts  of  the  day's  —  the  life's  —  experi 
ences  are  used,  others  rejected.  Added 
to  these  natural  and  explicable  possessions 
of  the  memory  are  a  mass  of  curious,  con 
flicting,  tangled  thoughts,  which  are  foreign 
to  our  whole  experience  of  existence,  and 
which,  when  confused  with  our  own  mem 
ories,  makes  of  our  nights  a  wild  jumble 
of  useless  and  foolish  pictures.  If  it  be 
true  that  it  is  by  some  outward  impression 
upon  the  senses  that  dreams  are  evoked, 
that  it  is  the  endeavours  of  the  somnolent 
mind  to  explain  to  itself  the  meaning  of  a 
noise,  a  light,  a  blow,  which  creates  that  de 
lusion  we  call  dreams,  then  it  is  not  upon 
the  stores  of  our  own  memories  alone  that 
the  brain  draws  for  material,  since  the  fall- 
ay 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

ing  rod  awoke  in  the  mind  of  Dr.  Scholz  a 
picture  of  the  French  revolution,  which  he 
had  never  seen,  and  different  in  detail  and 
vividness  from  any  picture  his  reading  had 
furnished. 

Heredity  is  an  overworked  jade,  too 
often  driven  in  double  harness  with  a 
hobby;  but  the  link  between  generation 
and  generation  is  so  strong  and  so  close 
that  none  may  lightly  tell  all  the  strands 
of  which  it  is  woven,  nor  from  whence  were 
spun  the  threads  that  tie  us  to  the  past. 
It  is  very  certain,  despite  the  theories  of 
Weismann,  that  the  acquired  character 
istics  of  the  parent  may  be  transmitted 
to  the  child.  The  boy  whose  father  walked 
the  quarter-deck  is,  nine  times  out  of  ten, 
as  certain  to  head  for  salt  water  as  a  sea 
gull  born  in  a  hen's  nest.  The  victim  of 
ill-fortune  and  prisoner  of  despair  who 
breaks  the  jail  of  life  to  escape  fate's  malice 
leaves  a  dark  tendency  in  the  blood  of  his 
offspring,  which  again  and  again  proves 
the  terrible  power  of  an  inherited  weak 
ness.  Women  who  lose  their  mind  or 
become  clouded  in  thought  at  childbirth  - 
though  they  come  of  a  stock  of  mens  sana  — 

28 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

transmit  the  blight  of  insanity  to  their 
sons  and  daughters  both;  and  not  only 
consumptive  tendencies  and  the  appetite 
for  drink  are  acquired  in  a  lifetime  and 
then  handed  on  for  generations,  but  prefer 
ences,  talents,  manners,  personal  likeness  — 
all  may  be  the  wretched  burden  or  happy 
gift  handed  down  to  the  son  by  the  father. 
Who  can  say  without  fear  of  contradiction 
that  the  memories  of  passions  and  emotions 
that  stirred  those  dead  hearts  to  their 
centre  may  not  be  a  part  of  our  inheritance  ? 
The  setting,  the  connection,  is  gone,  but 
the  memory  of  the  emotion  remains.  Such 
and  such  nerves  have  quivered  violently 
for  such  or  such  a  cause  —  the  memory 
stores  and  transmits  the  impression,  and 
a  similar  incident  sets  them  tingling  again, 
though  two  generations  lie  between. 

Certainly  animals  possess  very  distinctly 
these  inherited  memories.  A  young  horse 
never  before  beyond  the  paddock  and 
stables  will  fall  into  a  very  passion  of  fear 
when  a  snake  crosses  his  path,  or  when 
driven  upon  a  ferry  to  cross  deep,  swift 
water.  He  is  entirely  unfamiliar  with  the 
nature  of  the  danger,  but  at  some  period 

29 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

one  of  his  kind  has  sweated  and  throbbed 
in  hideous  peril,  and  the  memory  remains 
after  the  lapse  of  a  hundred  years.  He, 
no  more  than  ourselves,  can  recall  all  the 
surrounding  circumstances  of  that  peril, 
but  the  threatening  aspect  of  a  similar 
danger  brings  memory  forward  with  a  rush 
to  use  her  stored  warning.  When  the 
migrating  bird  finds  its  way  without  diffi 
culty,  untaught  and  unaccompanied,  to 
the  South  it  has  never  seen,  we  call  its 
guiding  principle  instinct  —  but  what  is  the 
definition  of  the  word  instinct  ?  No  man 
can  give  it.  It  but  removes  the  difficulty 
one  step  backward.  Call  this  instinct  an 
inherited  memory  and  the  matter  becomes 
clear.  Such  memories,  it  is  plain,  are 
more  definite  with  the  animals  than  with 
us;  but  so  are  many  of  their  faculties,  hear 
ing,  smell,  and  sight. 

Everyone  has  felt  many  times  in  his  life 
a  sense  of  familiarity  with  incidents  that 
have  had  no  place  in  his  own  experience, 
and  has  found  it  impossible  to  offer  any 
explanation  for  the  feeling.  Coming  sud 
denly  around  a  turn  of  a  hill  upon  a  fair 
and  unknown  landscape,  his  heart  may 
30 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

bound  with  a  keen  sense  of  recognition 
of  its  unfamiliar  outlines.  In  the  midst  of 
a  tingling  scene  of  emotion,  a  sensation 
of  the  whole  incident  being  a  mere  dull 
repetition  will  rob  it  of  its  joy  or  pain. 
A  sentence  begun  by  a  friend  is  recognized 
as  trite  and  old  before  it  is  half  done,  though 
it  refers  to  matters  new  to  the  hearer.  A 
sound,  a  perfume,  a  sensation,  will  awaken 
feelings  having  no  connection  with  the 
occasion. 

The  first  day  I  ever  spent  in  a  tropical 
country  I  was  charmed  with  the  excessive 
novelty  of  everything  about  me;  but  sud 
denly  that  evening,  being  carried  home  in 
a  chair  by  the  coolie  bearers,  a  flood  of 
recognition  poured  over  me  like  the  waves 
of  the  sea,  and  for  a  few  minutes  the  illusion 
was  so  strong  as  to  leave  me  breathless 
with  astonishment.  I  had  the  sense  of 
having  often  done  this  before.  The  warm 
night,  the  padding  of  the  bare  feet  in  the 
dust,  the  hot  smell  of  leaves,  were  all  an 
old,  trite  experience.  For  days  I  struggled 
with  that  tormenting  sense,  with  which  we 
are  all  familiar,  of  being  unable  to  recall 
a  something,  a  name,  that  is  perfectly  well 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

known  —  is  "on  the  tip  of  the  tongue," 
as  one  says  —  but  all  in  vain ;  and  in  time 
the  recognition  grew  fainter  and  more  elu 
sive  with  each  effort  to  grasp  it,  until  it 
slipped  forever  away  into  darkness.  If 
such  experiences  as  these  are  not  inherited 
memories,  what  are  they  ? 

With  sleep,  the  will  becomes  dormant. 
Waking,  it  guards  and  governs;  chooses 
what  we  shall  do  and  be  and  think;  stands 
sentinel  over  the  mind  and  rejects  all 
comers  with  which  it  is  not  familiar.  Un 
less  the  thought  comes  from  within  the 
known  borders  of  the  body's  own  life,  the 
will  will  have  none  of  it.  But  overtaken 
by  fatigue  and  sinking  into  slumber  with 
the  night,  his  domain  is  left  fenceless  and 
unpatrolled,  for  with  the  will  goes  his  troop 
of  watchmen,  judgment,  logic,  deliberation, 
ethics;  and  memory,  ungoverned  and  un 
controlled,  holds  a  feast  of  misrule.  The 
barrier  between  past  and  present  melts 
away;  all  his  ancestors  are  merged  into  the 
individual;  the  events  of  the  day  are  inex 
tricably  tangled  with  those  of  two  cen 
turies  since,  and  this  motley  play  of  time 
is  called  a  dream. 

32 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

A  man  going  back  but  to  his  great  grand 
parents  has  already  fourteen  direct  pro 
genitors,  and  is  heir  of  such  strange  or 
striking  episodes  of  their  fourteen  lives  as 
were  sufficiently  deeply  impressed  upon 
their  memories  to  be  transmittable.  This 
alone  is  enough,  one  would  think,  to  pro 
vide  all  the  nights  with  material  for  the 
queer  kaleidoscopic  jumbling  of  leavings, 
with  which  the  nimble  mind  diverts  itself, 
turning  over  the  leaves  of  its  old  picture- 
book  alone  in  the  dark  while  its  sluggish 
comrade  snores;  but  there  is  no  reason  to 
believe  that  there  is  a  limit  to  these  inheri 
tances. 

The  most  vivid  sensation  my  night 
memory  holds  is  of  finding  myself  standing 
alone,  high  up  in  a  vast  arena.  It  is  open 
to  the  sky  and  the  night  is  falling  swiftly 
and  warm.  Everyone  has  gone  but  my 
self,  but  there  is  a  tremulous  sensation  in 
my  mind,  as  of  very  recent  excitement, 
noise,  and  tumult.  I  am  waiting  for  some 
one  who  is  coming  through  the  arched 
door  on  the  left,  and  I  rise  to  go.  I  feel 
the  rough  coolness  of  the  stone  beneath 
my  hand  as  I  help  myself  to  rise,  and  upon 

33 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

my  throat  and  bosom  I  have  a  sensation 
of  the  light  wool  of  my  garment.  It  has 
the  vivid  familiarity  of  a  personal  and  per 
fectly  natural  experience  —  so  strong  that, 
waking,  I  retain  as  keen  a  sense  of  it  as  if  it 
were  a  happening  of  yesterday.  I  remem 
ber  many  more  dreams  of  this  type  — 
momentary  flashes  of  sensation  of  the 
trivial  things  about  me,  such  as  all  persons 
have  felt  in  their  waking  lives,  only  that 
the  things  about  me  in  my  dreams  are 
totally  unfamiliar  to  my  waking  brain. 
In  one  of  these  I  am  emerging  from  the 
back  door  of  a  small  white  house  —  in 
tensely  white  in  the  glare  of  a  fierce  sun. 
The  house  seems  square  and  flat-topped, 
built  of  stone  and  with  no  windows  visible 
here  in  the  rear.  It  opens  on  a  narrow 
street  of  similar  residences.  A  man  is  with 
me,  dressed  in  a  long  black  robe  and  wear 
ing  a  curious  black  head-dress.  He  is 
reproaching  me  and  remonstrating  vio 
lently  concerning  my  indifference  in  regard 
to  religious  matters.  I  look  away,  annoyed 
and  bored  by  his  vehemence,  and  the 
whole  picture  vanishes.  It  was  as  clear,  as 
natural  and  familiar,  as  my  own  waking 

34 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

life,  while  it  lasted.  .  .  .  The  narrow  street 
of  white  houses  seemed  the  only  possible 
form  for  a  street.  I  had  no  consciousness 
of  anything  different  or  more  modern. 
The  man's  eager,  stern  face,  with  the  heavy 
beard  and  the  high  head-dress,  looked  in 
no  way  strange  or  unfamiliar.  With  that 
double  consciousness  with  which  we  are 
all  familiar  when  awake,  I  watched  the 
movement  of  his  lips  and  the  wagging  of 
his  beard  as  he  talked,  full  of  a  sense  of 
distaste,  and  thought,  while  listening  to  his 
flow  of  clear  words,  "How  tiresome  these 
religious  men  are!" 

Another  time  I  was  aware  of  standing 
in  the  dark,  sword  in  hand  (I  seemed  to  be 
a  man  and  the  seeming  was  not  strange  to 
me),  listening  with  furious  pulses  to  a  con 
fusion  of  clashing  blades  and  stamping  of 
feet.  Under  the  surface  of  passionate  ex 
citement  the  deeper  sub-consciousness  said: 
"All  is  lost!  The  conspiracy  is  a  failure!" 
I  was  aware  of  a  cool  bravado  which  recog 
nized  the  uselessness  of  attempting  escape. 
The  dice  had  been  thrown  —  they  had 
turned  up  wrong,  that  was  all.  Yet  so 
vigorous  and  courageous  was  the  heart  of 

35 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

this  man  that  he  was  still  buoyantly  un 
afraid.  There  was  a  rush  of  bodies  by 
him;  the  door  swung  back  against  him, 
crushing  him  to  the  wall,  and  a  few  moments 
later,  under  guard,  he  was  passing  through 
a  long,  low  corridor  of  stone.  The  torches 
showed  the  groined  arch  above  him,  and, 
a  cell  being  unlocked,  for  the  first  time  he 
felt  afraid.  Inside  was  a  big  bear  with  a 
collar  about  its  neck,  and  two  villainous- 
faced  mountebanks  sat  surlily  upon  the 
floor.  The  man  was  very  much  afraid  at 
the  thought  of  such  companions,  for  his 
hands  were  tied  and  he  had  no  sword; 
yet  he  reasoned  jovially  with  his  guards, 
not  wishing  to  show  his  real  terror.  After 
some  protests  his  sword  was  returned  to 
him  and  he  stepped  inside,  again  cheer 
fully  confident.  The  door  clanged  to  be 
hind  him  and  the  dream  faded.  All  the 
conditions  of  the  dream,  the  change  of  sex, 
the  strange  clothes  and  faces,  the  arched 
corridor,  the  men  with  the  bear,  seemed 
to  my  senses  perfectly  natural.  They  were 
quite  commonplace,  and  of  course.  For 
the  most  part,  however,  my  dreams  are 
the  fantastic  hodge-podge  common  to 

36 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

dreamers,  such  as  might  result  from  the 
unsorted,  unclassified  memories  of  a  thou 
sand  persons  flung  down  in  a  heap  together 
and  grasped  without  choice.  One  curi 
ous  fact  I  have  noted  is  that  though  I  am 
a  wide  and  omnivorous  reader,  I  have 
never  had  a  dream  or  impression  in  sleep 
which  might  not  have  been  part  of  the 
experience  of  some  one  of  European  or 
American  ancestry.  I  am  an  ardent  reader 
of  travel  and  adventure,  but  never  have  I 
imagined  myself  in  Africa,  nor  have  the 
landscapes  of  my  dreams  been  other  than 
European  or  American. 

Mr.  Howells,  in  "True  I  Talk  of 
Dreams,"  added  confirmation  on  this  point 
by  saying  that  he  had  never  been  able 
to  discover  a  dreamer  who  had  seen  in  his 
dreams  a  dragon  or  any  such  beast  of 
impossible  proportions. 

It  suggests  itself — en  passant  —  that 
dragons  and  other  such  "fearful  wild  fowl" 
are  not  uncommon  in  the  cataclysmic 
visions  of  delirium,  but  perhaps  the  potency 
of  fever,  of  drugs,  of  alcohol,  or  of  mania, 
may  open  up  deeps  of  memory,  of  primor 
dial  memory,  that  are  closed  to  the  milder 

37 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

magic  of  sleep.  The  subtle  poison  in  the 
grape  may  gnaw  through  the  walls  of  Time 
and  give  the  memory  sight  of  those  terrible 
days  when  we  wallowed  —  nameless  shapes 
—  in  the  primaeval  slime.  Who  knows 
whether  Alexander  the  Great,  crowning 
himself  with  the  gold  of  Bedlam's  straws, 
may  not  be  only  forgetful  of  the  years  that 
gape  between  him  and  his  kingly  Mace 
donian  ancestor  ?  Even  Horatio's  philoso 
phy  did  not  plumb  all  the  mysteries  of  life 
and  of  heredity. 

Another  interesting  fact,  in  this  connec 
tion,  is  that  those  who  come  of  a  class  who 
have  led  narrow  and  uneventful  lives  for 
generations  dream  but  little,  and  that 
dully  and  without  much  sensation;  while 
the  children  of  adventurous  and  travelled 
ancestors  —  men  and  women  whose  pas 
sions  have  been  profoundly  stirred  —  have 
their  nights  filled  with  the  movement  "of 
old  forgotten  far-off  things  and  battles 
long  ago."  Again,  it  is  a  fact  that  many 
persons,  while  hovering  on  the  borders  of 
sleep,  but  still  vaguely  conscious,  are  ac 
customed  to  see  pictures  of  all  manner  of 
disconnected  things  —  many  of  them  scenes 

38 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

or  faces  which  have  never  had  part  in  their 
waking  life  —  drifting  slowly  across  the 
darkness  of  the  closed  lid  like  the  pictures 
of  a  magic  lantern  across  a  sheet  stretched 
to  receive  them,  and  these,  by  undiscern- 
ible  gradations,  lead  the  sleeper  away  into 
the  land  of  dreams,  the  dim  treasure 
house  of  memory  and  the  past. 

If  a  dream  is  a  memory,  then  the 
stories  of  their  momentary  duration  are 
easily  credible.  The  falling  rod  upon  the 
sleeper's  neck  might  recall,  as  by  a  light 
ning  flash,  some  scene  in  the  Red  Terror 
in  which  his  ancestor  participated  —  an 
ancestor  so  nearly  allied,  perhaps,  to  the 
victim  suffering  under  the  knife  as  to  know 
all  the  agonies  vicariously,  and  leave  the 
tragedy  bitten  into  his  memory  and  his 
blood  forever. 

When  the  words  heredity  or  instinct 
are  contemplated  in  their  broad  sense  they 
mean  no  more  than  inherited  memory. 
The  experiences  of  many  generations  teach 
the  animal  its  proper  food  and  methods  of 
defence.  The  fittest  survive  because  they 
have  inherited  most  clearly  the  memories 
of  the  best  means  of  securing  nourishment 

39 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

and  escaping  enemies.  The  marvellous 
facility  gradually  acquired  by  artisans  who 
for  generations  practise  a  similar  craft  is 
but  the  direct  transmission  of  the  brain's 
treasures. 

In  sleep  the  brain  is  peculiarly  active  in 
certain  directions,  not  being  distracted  by 
the  multitude  of  impressions  constantly 
conveyed  to  it  by  the  five  senses,  and  ex 
periments  with  hypnotic  sleepers  prove 
that  some  of  its  functions  become  in  sleep 
abnormally  acute  and  vigorous.  Why  not 
the  function  of  memory  ?  The  possessions 
which  during  the  waking  hours  were  use 
less,  and  therefore  rejected  by  the  will, 
surge  up  again,  vivid  and  potent,  and  troop 
before  the  perception  unsummoned,  motley 
and  fantastic;  serving  no  purpose  more 
apparent  than  do  the  idle,  disconnected 
recollections  of  one's  waking  moments  of 
dreaminess  —  and  yet  it  may  hap,  withal, 
that  the  tireless  brain,  forever  turning  over 
and  over  its  heirlooms  in  the  night,  is  seek 
ing  here  an  inspiration,  or  there  a  memory, 
to  be  used  in  that  fierce  and  complex 
struggle  called  Life. 


40 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

NOVEMBER  6. 

G was  talking  yesterday  about  the 

"Sonnets    from  the   Portuguese."   xheFoun- 
Liked  them.     Thought  them  the   tain  of 
high-water     mark     of     Feminine   Salmacis- 
Poetry.  .  .  . 

Alas,  then,  for  that  capitalized  variety 
of  verse ! 

To  me  these  sonnets  are  extremely  dis 
agreeable.  There  is  a  type  of  man  whose 
love  is  intolerably  odious  in  all  its  manifes 
tations  to  a  wholesome  woman.  She  feels 
that  he  is  too  nearly  akin  to  her  own  sex 
for  his  love  to  seem  a  natural,  virile  thing. 
Other  men  never  appear  to  guess  this  cause 
of  persistent  lack  of  success  with  women. 

They  say:  "Jones  is  a  good  fellow  — 
modest,  clean-minded,  gentle,  —  why  is  he 
so  unlucky  with  women  ?  The  truth  is, 
women  like  brutes." 

The  underlying  femininity  of  Jones  is 
not  repulsive  to  them.  They  probably 
feel,  however,  the  same  repugnance  for  the 
tendernesses  of  women  who  are  too  nearly 
akin  to  themselves. 

The  Greeks  seem  to  have  thought  about 
41 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

and  observed  this.  From  their  keen  vision 
none  of  the  phenomena  of  life,  apparently, 
was  hid,  and  they  were  quite  aware  of  this 
occasional  confusion  of  the  nature  and  per 
son  of  the  sex.  As  usual  they  typified  it 
and  invented  legends  about  it,  though  they 
were  not,  of  course,  aware  of  its  cause  — 
the  atavistic  tendency  to  throw  back  to  the 
primordial  condition  when  both  sexes  ex 
isted  in  the  same  individual;  but  then  they 
were  poets  and  not  scientists.  They  got  at 
essential  truths  by  instinct  and  revealed 
their  knowledge  by  beautiful  suggestion 
rather  than  by  exact  analysis.  The  dry- 
as-dusts  fail  even  yet  to  see  that  their  mar 
bles  and  legends  are  as  valuable  in  the 
study  of  life  as  German  theses. 

:'The  Sonnets  from  the  Portuguese"  give 
me  the  unwholesome,  uncomfortable  sense 
that  one  gets  from  those  unlucky  feminine 
men  and  masculine  women.  They  mingle 
in  a  disagreeable  fashion  the  pride  and 
reserve  of  the  woman  who  receives  worship 
and  the  abandon  and  aggressiveness  of  the 
man  who  sues. 

One  wonders  why  women  cannot  write 
poetry  ?  —  or  rather,  to  speak  with  more 

42 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

exactness  —  are  never  poets.  Once  or 
twice  in  their  lives,  perhaps,  they  may  speak 
with  sacred  fire,  but  they  are  never,  in  the 
full  meaning  of  the  word,  poets.  They 
cannot  rise  out  of  themselves. 

Gosse  says  of  Mrs.  Browning:  "She  was 
not  striving  to  produce  an  effect;  she  was 
trying  with  all  the  effort  of  which  her  spirit 
was  capable  to  say  exactly  what  was  in  her 
heart." 

There  is  the  whole  secret  of  the  feminine 
failure  in  art.  It  always  degenerates  into  an 
attempt  to  express,  not  humanity,  but  the 
individual  woman.  Woman  is  inevitably 
personal.  She  still  sits  alone  at  the  door  of 
her  wigwam.  Of  humanity,  she  is  ignorant, 
and  to  it  is,  moreover,  indifferent. 

Mrs.  Browning  was  only  once  shaken 
out  of  herself  —  when  she  wrote  that  fine 
plaint  "De  Profundis"  —  voicing  the  griefs 
of  the  many  in  telling  of  her  own.  After 
all,  a  portrait  of  one's  self  only  is  not  art, 
or  is  art  in  its  most  limited  form.  Aurora 
Leigh  and  all  the  rest  are  simply  Elizabeth 
Barrett  masking  under  other  names.  How 
ever  much  the  hand  may  resemble  Esau's, 
the  voice  is  always  the  voice  of  Jacob. 

43 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

Byron  had  these  same  feminine  limi 
tations  -  " dressing  up"  (as  the  children 
say)  as  a  Pirate,  a  Turk,  or  the  like,  and 
reciting  a  rhymed  Baedeker  for  the  benefit 
of  the  untravelled;  but  whether  Pirate  or 
Giaour,  always  unmistakably  Byron. 

What  the  women  with  poetic  gifts  can 
do  is  to  translate  delightfully.  Mrs.  Brown 
ing's  translations  of  Heine  are  quite  the 
best  in  existence.  Emma  Lazarus  made 
an  English  version  of  "Une  Nuit  de  Mai" 
that  is  almost  more  delightful  than  the 
original.  She  might  have  enriched  our 
treasury  of  verse  with  priceless  trans 
ferences;  instead  of  which  she  wasted  her 
gifts  upon  unimportant  "expressions  of 
herself." 

NOVEMBER  20. 

A—  -  says  there  is  no  definite,  abstract 
standard  of  beauty  or  perfection. 

We  were  talking  of  Jean  de  Reszke's 

Siegfried.  A was  completely  satisfied 

TWO  with  it.  I  explained  that  he  was 

Siegfrieds.  so  on}y  because  he  had  not  seen 

Alvary  in  the  part.  A was  sure  that 

even  if  he  had  done  so  de  Reszke  might 

44 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

still  be  best  to  his  taste;  asserting  again 
that  there  was  no  ideal  good  in  art,  but 
only  preference.  Of  course  he  does  say 
this  for  the  very  reason  that  I  advanced  — 
because  he  had  not  seen  Alvary. 

Poor  beautiful  young  creature!  He  died 
recently  in  Germany  in  horrible,  useless, 
ridiculous  pain.  Wagner,  I  am  sure,  would 
have  thought  him  the  ideal  Siegfried,  for 
he  never  made  vocal  gymnastics  a  fetish, 
but  demanded  satisfaction  for  the  eye  as 
much  as  for  the  ear. 

Alvary's  Siegfried  was  the  very  embodi 
ment  of  splendid,  golden,  joyous  youth. 
Balmung  beaten  into  shape,  he  sprang 
from  the  forge,  whirling  it  and  laughing  at 
its  glitter  as  an  ecstatic  child  might.  The 
splitting  of  the  anvil  was  the  mere  sudden 
caprice  of  youthful  bravado  and  mischief. 
He  looked  about  for  an  instant  to  find 
something  on  which  to  test  his  new  toy, 
and  struck  the  iron  in  half  as  a  boy  would 
snip  off  the  head  of  a  daisy  with  his  new 
whip.  All  his  movements  had  the  unpre- 
meditatedness  of  youth. 

Drunk  with  the  struggle  and  the  triumph 
of  his  contest  with  the  dragon,  he  killed 

45 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

Mime  more  to  sate  this  new  lust  of  power 
than  to  mete  out  justice  or  due  punish 
ment.  He  threw  himself,  sweating  with 
exertion,  and  swelling  with  a  new  realiza 
tion  of  his  manhood,  upon  the  grasses  by 
the  stream,  and  as  the  breezes  cooled  his 
body  and  spirit,  and  the  soft  peace  of  the 
green  world  stole  upon  him,  romance  woke 
in  his  face  and  voice:  the  rough  uncouth- 
ness  of  boyhood  fell  away  like  a  discarded 
garment. 

Who  that  once  saw  and  heard  it  can  ever 
forget  those  fresh  tones  or  that  slim-waisted 
boy  wandering  away  into  the  sunlit  forest, 
his  beautiful  dreaming  face  lifted  yearn 
ingly  to  the  thrilling  bird  voice  that  sang 
of  love  ?  .  .  .  Youth  seeking  passion  —  the 
sleeping  woman  ringed  with  fire. 

Ah  me!  —  all  our  hearts  ached  after 
him;  after  our  own  splendid  moment. 

It  is  useless  to  say  that  this  is  not  abso 
lute  beauty.  It  is  impossible  that  a  heavy- 
footed  tenor  (whose  belt  would  have  served 
for  a  saddle  girth)  with  a  square  Sclav 
head  and  pendulous  cheeks  can  be  equalized 
to  the  other  by  individual  taste.  Such  taste 
is  simply  bad. 

46 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

JANUARY  6. 

I    have    been    reading    Pater's    "Greek 
Studies";     a    volume    which     an       A  Door 
amiable  friend  presented  to  me  as       AJar- 
a  Christmas  gift. 

It  affects  me  physically  as  well  as  men 
tally.  I  must  lay  the  book  down  now  and 
then,  because  I  find  my  heart  beats  and 
my  temples  grow  moist.  It  is  as  if  its 
covers  were  doors  opening  into  the  other 
world  —  that  world  that  is  always  just 
beyond  one. 

I  don't  know  whether  it  is  a  common 
experience,  but  from  my  earliest  childhood 
I  have  always  had  a  sort  of  belief  that  if 
one  stooped  very  low,  held  one's  breath, 
and  made  a  bold  spring,  one  would  break 
through  and  under  the  barrier,  and  be 
There  ! 

Or  one  might  go  very  suddenly  around 
a  corner  and  be  There.  Always  there  was 
the  sensation  that  it  was  lying  just  beyond, 
just  outside  of  one's  self,  and  that  only  a 
certain  heaviness  of  the  flesh,  a  certain 
lack  of  concentration  of  attention,  pre 
vented  one's  participation  in  it. 

47 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

Twice  the  door  almost  opened.  I  sprang 
in  spirit  to  cross  the  threshold,  and  there 
was  —  nothing.  The  door  was  slammed 
in  my  face,  but  I  never  forgot  that  I  had 
nearly  got  through.  It  was  like  death. 
As  if  one's  brain  and  heart  had  suddenly 
grown  vast  and  vapourized.  Pater's  book 
rouses  some  echo  of  those  sensations. 

I  can't  define  what  the  other  life  is.  It  is 
all  around  me.  I  feel  it  in  the  water  when  I 
swim  —  a  sentiency.  If  I  could  only  look 
close  enough  into  the  shifting  depths,  I 
should  see — a  hand  clasped  quickly  enough 
would  grasp  —  what  always  just  evades. 

I  feel  it  around  me,  breathing  and  watch 
ing  in  the  woods.  It  is  what  I  cannot  quite 
catch  in  the  talk  of  the  birds.  It  is  what 
the  animals  say  with  their  eyes. 

The  Greeks  understood  it.  They  called  it 
Pan,  and  Cybele,  and  Dionysus,  or  dryads  in 
the  woods,  or  nymphs  in  the  fountain,  but 
those  were  only  terms  by  which  they  tried  to 
express  the  inexpressible.  It  is  so  subtle  - 
so  intoxicating.  It  is  like  love  —  a  reblend- 
ing  with  all  the  elements  of  nature.  One 
aches  and  strains  toward  it,  and  yet  feels  a 
delicious,  shuddering  reluctance  to  know. 

48 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 


JANUARY  7. 

Oh  High  Heart  of  mine, 

Now  list  to  a  wonder!  ofDeSh. 

Thou  shalt  vent  thy  great  rages 

In   lightning   and   thunder. 
And  the  force  of  thy  fury,  more  mighty  than  they, 
Shall  rock  mountains,  and  rip  them  asunder. 

When  thou  weepest,  oh  Heart! 

All  thy  bitter  deploring 
In  the  white  whirling  rains 

Shall  have  anguished  outpouring. 
And  the  salt  and  the  sound  of  thy  grief,  like  the  sea, 
Shake  the  night  with  its  sullen  wild  roaring. 

When  thou  lovest,  oh  Heart! 

Into  sudden  fierce  flower, 
"Neath  thy  passionate  breath 

In  one  rapturous  hour, 

Earth  shall  blossom,  all  crimson  and  trembling  with  love, 
Stirred  to  heart  by  thy  rage  and  thy  power. 

Then,  high  Heart,  be  brave! 

This  death  is  but  rending 
Of  limits  that  vexed, 

And  the  ultimate  blending 
With  the  cosmical  passions  of  Nature  thine  own, 
Made  immortal,  insatiate,  unending. 

JANUARY  10. 

Boutet  de  Monvel,  who  had  been  lend 
ing  H—  -  a  polite  but  obviously  fatigued 
attention,  got  up  with  alacrity  as  The  Curse 
the  clock  struck  ten  and  bowed  of  Babel< 

49 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

himself  out,  with  that  military  bend  of 
the  hips  characteristic  of  French  salutes. 

H passed  his  handkerchief  around  the 

top  of  his  collar  and  said : 

"Damn  Babel!" 

We  all  laughed. 

"Now,  here,"    said    H ,  indignantly, 

"is  a  man  with  a  beautiful  mind,  a  man 
full  of  beautiful  thoughts  and  visions,  and 
because  of  those  infernal  French  verb  in 
flections,  because  they  will  call  tables  and 
chairs  'he'  and  'she'  instead  of  'it,'  I  can't 
communicate  with  him  without  boring  him 
to  death.  We  English-speaking  people 
are  a  great  deal  more  lenient.  Some  of 
the  pleasantest  talks  I've  ever  had  have 
been  with  foreigners  who  waded  through 
a  slaughter  of  my  native  tongue  to  a  posi 
tive  throne  in  my  respect.  But  no  foreigner 
can  ever  tolerate  broken  French  or  Spanish. 
They  jump  to  the  immediate  conclusion 
that  a  man  who  can't  speak  their  abomi 
nable  gibberish  correctly  must  be  either  a 
boor  or  a  fool,  and  they  don't  take  the  pains 
to  conceal  that  impression.  Why  don't 
they  learn  to  speak  English,  so  that  a  human 
being  could  talk  to  them  ? " 

5° 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

R told  a  story  of  recent  experience  in 

Italy,  which  he  thought  suggested  an  equal 
arrogance  in  the  Anglo-Saxon. 

He  had  watched  a  young  woman,  an 
American,  on  the  railway  platform  at 
Naples,  explaining  in  lucid  English  to  the 
porter  her  wishes  concerning  her  luggage. 
The  porter  stared,  shrugged,  and  seized 
a  bag.  The  girl  caught  his  arm. 

"Put  that  down,"  she  said  sternly.  "I 
mean  that  to  go  in  the  carriage  with  me. 
Those  two  trunks  are  to  be  labelled  for 
Rome  and  put  in  the  van." 

The  porter  began  to  gesticulate  and 
gabble. 

'There's  no  use  making  so  much  noise," 
she  commented  contemptuously.  'Just  do 
as  I  tell  you  and  don't  lose  time." 

The  Italian  hunched  his  shoulders,  threw 
his  hands  out  in  fan-like  gestures,  and  made 

volcanic  appeals  to  heaven.     R ,  who  is 

shy,  but   chivalrous,   and   who  speaks   six 
Italian  dialects,  felt  called  upon  to  take  part. 

"Excuse  me,  Madam,"  he  said,  "but 
you  seem  to  be  having  some  difficulty 
with  your  luggage.  As  I  speak  Italian, 
perhaps  I  may  be  of  service  to  you." 

51 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

The  girl  turned  a  cold  eye  upon  him  and 
waved  him  away. 

'Thank  you,"  she  said,  "you  are  very 
kind,  but  all  the  world  has  got  to  speak 
English  eventually,  and  there  is  no  use 
indulging  these  people  in  their  ridiculous 
Italian  now!" 

JANUARY  14. 

I  lunched  with  Mary  R yesterday 

and  heard  a  curious  story.     Mrs.  M , 

The  w^°    *s    ordinarily    so    amusing, 

Fourth        seemed  distrait  and  disturbed  all 
Dimen-       through  the  meal,  and  when  the 

sion.  t  .       .  A  , 

other  women  had  gone,  Mary, 
who  is  extremely  sensitive  and  sympathetic 
to  the  state  of  mind  of  everyone  about  her, 
led  Mrs.  M—  — ,  in  a  manner  fascinating 
in  its  skilfulness,  to  unpack  her  overladen 
spirit. 

She  said:  "I  have  been  spending  the 
morning  with  a  friend,  who  is  half  mad 
with  melancholia.  She  has  had  a  terrible 
experience.  She  is  a  Philadelphia  woman. 
Her  husband  was  a  manufacturer  of  win 
dow  glass.  He  died  about  five  years  ago 
from  typhoid  fever  and  left  her  with  a  small 

52 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

fortune  and  two  daughters;  one  fourteen 
years  old,  one  seventeen  —  nice,  rosy,  whole 
some,  well  brought  up  girls.  They  had 
always  wanted  to  travel,  but  during  her 
husband's  lifetime  he  was  too  busy  and  she 
would  never  leave  him.  About  a  year 
after  his  death,  they  concluded,  as  the 
lease  of  their  house  had  run  out,  to  store 
their  furniture  and  go  abroad  for  a  time, 
with  the  idea  that  the  girls  could  perfect 
themselves  in  languages  and  music  and 
see  something  of  the  world. 

I  don't  want  you  to  think  there  was 
anything  sensational  about  them.  They 
were  just  quiet,  middle-class  Philadelphians, 
—  you  know  the  type,  —  modest,  conven 
tional,  devoted  to  the  proprieties.  That's 
what  makes  their  story  all  the  more  tragic. 
They  arrived  in  London;  took  quiet 
lodgings  in  Dover  Street,  and  concluded 
to  spend  six  months  in  England,  seeing 
the  sights,  and  making  these  London  lodg 
ings  their  headquarters.  They  had  been 
there  all  through  the  month  of  May,  doing 
picture  galleries,  churches,  and  the  muse 
ums,  and  occasionally  a  theatre.  One 
Saturday  they  had  tickets  for  a  concert, 

53 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

and  as  the  place  was  near  and  the  day 
was  fine,  they  decided  to  walk  to  the  place 
where  the  concert  was  to  be  given,  stopping 
at  a  shop  in  Regent  street  on  the  way  to 
give  an  order  about  something  being  made 
there.  I  don't  know  what  it  was,  or  where 
the  shop  was  situated,  but  at  all  events 
the  three  were  walking  abreast,  the  girls 
chattering  and  joking  about  the  order. 
The  sidewalk  was  very  crowded,  so  that 
the  mother  stepped  ahead,  but  heard  her 
daughters'  voices  at  her  elbow  for  several 
minutes. 

The  street  grew  clearer  as  she  went,  and 
she  turned  to  beckon  the  girls  alongside 
again.  She  didn't  see  them,  and  stood 
a  few  moments  for  them  to  catch  up.  After 
waiting  awhile  she  walked  back  and  still 
missed  them.  It  occurred  to  her  that 
they  might  have  passed  ahead  without 
her  noticing  it,  and  gone  on  to  the  shop 
where  they  had  planned  to  stop,  so  she 
went  there  and  waited  twenty  minutes. 
Then  she  imagined  they  might  have  missed 
their  way,  and  gone  to  the  concert  hall  to 
wait  for  her.  By  this  time  she  felt  sufficient 
anxiety  to  hail  a  cab,  but  no  one  had  seen 

54 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

them  at  the  concert  hall,  and  she  herself 
had  all  three  of  the  tickets,  so  she  returned 
to  their  lodgings,  sure  that  they  would 
turn  up  there  eventually  in  any  case. 

At  six  o'clock  they  were  still  absent,  and 
really  frightened  by  this  time  she  visited 
all  the  near-by  police  stations,  but  could 
get  no  news  of  them. 

That  was  four  years  ago,  and  from  that 
day  to  this  she  has  never  seen  or  heard  of 
them.  She  has  travelled  all  over  Europe 
and  returned  twice  to  America,  has  ad 
vertised  in  every  possible  way,  and  has 
employed  the  best  detectives  of  both  con 
tinents.  Now  she  has  come  back  for  the 
third  time,  utterly  broken  in  health  and 
fortune.  Their  home  in  Philadelphia  has 
become  a  boarding-house,  and  she  has 
taken  a  room  and  will  spend  the  rest  of 
her  life  there,  hoping  that  in  that  way,  if 
they  ever  return,  they  may  be  able  to  reach 
her.  Nearly  all  her  money  has  gone  in 
the  search,  and  her  mind  is  almost  equally 
a  wreck.  She  goes  over  to  Philadelphia 
this  afternoon,  and  I  went  in  the  morning 
to  tell  her  good-by." 

Mary  said  —  her  lips  were  white  —  "  But, 

55 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

good  heavens,  Emily!  where  could  the 
girls  have  gone  ? " 

"That's  the  terrible  part  of  it,"  Mrs. 
M—  answered.  "One  can't  imagine. 
They  were  both  so  young.  It  was  in  a 
foreign  country:  they  had  no  money.  As 
far  as  the  mother  knew,  neither  had,  nor 
could  have  had,  any  reason  for  going,  nor 
anyone  a  reason  for  taking  them.  If  one 
only  had  gone  one  might  suspect  a  lover, 
or  a  sudden  aberration  of  mind,  but  there 
were  two;  it  was  in  broad  daylight.  Three 
minutes  before  they  had  been  beside  her. 
There  was  no  struggle,  no  accident.  No 
one  could  have  silently  carried  off  or  made 
way  with  two  grown  girls  in  Regent  Street 
in  midday.  One  minute  they  were  there, 
laughing,  happy,  and  commonplace,  and 
the  next  minute  they  had  vanished  utterly 
and  forever,  without  a  word  or  a  cry. 

"But  why  has  one  never  heard  of  it?" 
I  said. 

"Well,  of  course,  the  mother  kept  it  out 
of  the  papers.  For  a  long  time  she  feared 
they  might  have  been  the  victims  of  the 
sort  of  person  who  preys  on  young  girls, 
and  dreaded  that  there  should  be  a  scandal 

56 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

by  which  their  lives  should  be  ruined  if 
they  ever  returned.  To-day  I  think  she 
would  be  glad  to  find  them  even  in  the 
lowest  brothel,  if  she  might  only  see  them 
again." 

"Hadn't  any  of  the  police  or  detectives 
a  theory?" 

"Oh,  thousands  at  first,  but  they  never 
bore  any  fruit.  Consider  all  the  circum 
stances.  They  were  sensible,  self-reliant 
American  girls.  By  this  time,  if  they  were 
alive,  they  would  have  found  some  means 
of  communicating  with  their  mother.  She 
has  published  guarded  appeals,  which  they 
would  understand,  and  always  in  the  Eng 
lish  language,  in  about  every  paper  in  this 
country  and  Europe." 

"But  what  do  you  think?" 

"What  can  one  think?  Can  you  con 
ceive  of  any  solution  when  you  consider 
all  the  facts  ?" 

"Has  the  mother  no  theory?" 

"Well,  she  has,  but  then  she  is  hardly 
sensible,  you  know,  after  the  strain  of  such 
an  experience.  You've  heard  of  the  Fourth 
Dimension,  haven't  you  ?  She  says  if  that's 
not  the  explanation,  she  cannot  imagine 

57 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

any  other.  She  doesn't  really  believe  it, 
I  think,  but  she  says  if  they  did  not  stumble 
into  it,  where  are  they  ?  And  what  answer 
can  one  give  her  ? " 

By  this  time  it  was  late,  and  I  came 
away.  Outside  the  sun  was  shining  and 
the  trolley  cars  buzzing  by.  The  theory 
of  the  Fourth  Dimension  seemed  absurd, 
but  I  wondered  where  those  poor  young 
girls  could  have  gone,  and  felt  an  oppres 
sion  in  my  breathing. 

JANUARY  23. 

Who,  I  wonder,  was  the  stupid  phrase- 
maker  guilty  of  saying  that  Genius  was 
The  Ant  onry  an  infinite  capacity  for  tak- 
and  the  ing  pains  ?  And  yet  Shakespeare, 
according  to  tradition,  never  blot 
ted  a  line.  How  much  pains  had  the  little 
Mozart  taken  when  he  began  his  first  con 
cert  tour  ?  Creation  comes  swiftly  and 
with  heat.  The  man  who  must  take  infi 
nite  pains  in  production  is  never  a  genius. 
Indeed,  when  one  sees  how  little  the  crea 
tion  of  beauty,  harmony,  or  ideas  is  related 
to  their  human  creator,  how  little,  in  a  way, 
he  seems  related  to  them,  one  is  almost 

58 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

inclined  to  imagine  that  somewhere  there 
exists  a  great  reservoir  of  force  and  that 
the  "genius"  is  merely  a  cock  through 
which  the  creative  fluid  runs.  He  happens 
to  be  the  cock  that  is  "turned  on"  while 
the  handles  of  the  others  are  left  untouched. 


There  was  once  a  very  ambitious  and 
industrious  Ant.  Its  home  was  in  a  field 
where  the  grass  and  flowers  bloomed. 

This  Ant  had  convictions  as  to  the  best 
uses  of  life,  and  wasted  no  time.  So  many 
hours  a  day  she  devoted  to  the  improve 
ment  of  her  mind,  and  so  many  to  her  life 
labour,  which  was  to  build  an  ant-hill. 
Early  and  late  she  toiled,  and  as  she  toiled 
she  thought  very  deeply,  elaborating  numer 
ous  excellent  and  noble  theories.  All  her 
theories  concerned  the  best  use  of  oppor 
tunities,  and  the  doing  of  some  work  which 
should  make  the  world  better  because  she 
had  existed. 

Once  in  a  long  while,  when  quite  worn 
out  by  her  labours,  she  would  climb  to  the 
top  of  a  blade  of  grass,  and  look  out  into 
the  world.  Sometimes  the  sun  was  just 

59 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

rising  and  the  field  was  damascened  with 
the  blue  and  white  cups  of  morning-glories, 
and  sometimes  it  was  evening  and  the  moon 
silvered  the  dew-hung  grass,  which  palpi 
tated  with  fireflies.  At  such  times  a  di 
vine  yearning  and  great  longing  filled  the 
heart  of  the  tired  little  emmet,  and  she 
would  hurry  down  to  her  work  at  once, 
saying  bravely  to  herself: 

"If  I  waste  a  moment  my  hill  will  never 
be  high  enough  to  look  out  upon  this  beau 
tiful  world."  And  so  would  toil  on  with 
out  ceasing,  taking  the  greatest  pains  with 
every  grain  of  sand,  fitting  and  refitting  it 
into  its  place  with  infinite  pains,  and  com 
forting  herself  for  her  slow  progress  by 
saying: 

"I  am  really  not  very  old  yet.  I  still 
have  a  great  many  days  in  which  to  com 
plete  my  work."  And  would  make  some 
excuse  to  herself  for  going  down  to  stand 
on  the  ground  beside  it  and  gain  encour 
agement  by  noting  how  much  greater  was 
the  hill  than  her  own  stature,  and  then 
went  happily  back  to  her  task. 

Near  the  Ant's  hill  a  lark  had  built 
its  home  —  a  careless  body,  who  roughly 

60 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

kicked  out  the  earth  for  a  nest,  and  who, 
being  dull  as  she  sat  on  her  eggs,  con 
versed  at  times  with  the  Ant,  for  whom  the 
matron  manifested  an  ill-concealed  con 
tempt. 

"In  heaven's  name!"  she  said,  "What 
is  the  use  of  wearing  yourself  to  skin  and 
bone  working  on  that  hill  ?  Isn't  it  quite 
big  enough  for  your  uses  already?" 

"Yes,"  replied  the  Ant,  patiently,  "but 
it  is  every  one's  duty  to  make  the  world 
as  beautiful  as  they  can,  and  I  want  to 
build  the  biggest  and  most  beautiful  ant 
hill  in  the  world.  And  oh!"  -she  cried, 
clasping  her  little  paws  and  with  a  hungry 
look  in  her  eyes-  "I  do  so  want  to  be 
famous!" 

"Fiddle-de-dee!"  answered  the  brown 
bird,  contemptuously.  "Famous!  —  what 
is  that  ?  Are  you  wearing  yourself  out 
for  such  nonsense  ?  As  for  me,  give  me  a 
fat  worm  for  breakfast  and  luck  with  my 
eggs,  and  it's  all  I  ask."  Saying  which, 
she  tucked  her  head  under  her  wing  and 
went  to  sleep,  while  the  Ant  hurried  away 
to  finish  the  daily  task  she  set  herself. 

In  course  of  time  a  young  lark  was 
61 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

hatched.  A  great  red,  sprawling,  feather- 
less  thing,  with  a  big  bill  and  no  idea  but 
worms.  The  Ant  used  to  try  sometimes, 
when  his  mother  was  absent  hunting  food, 
to  teach  the  ugly  young  thing  some  of  her 
own  excellent  theories,  but  the  bird  only 
blinked  sleepily  and  scornfully  and  never 
answered  a  word,  so  the  Ant  was  reluctantly 
obliged  to  give  up  the  hope  of  ever  inspir 
ing  him  with  the  nobler  ambitions  of  life. 

She  was  growing  much  encouraged  about 
her  own  work.  All  the  other  ants  in  the 
field  wondered  at  and  admired  it,  and  as 
one  could  nearly  see  out  above  the  grasses 
by  standing  upon  her  hill  on  tiptoe,  the 
happy  insect  began  to  dream  of  immortality. 

By  this  time,  too,  the  young  lark  had 
grown  feathers,  and  one  morning  he 
stumbled  out  of  the  nest,  fluttered  a  mo 
ment  to  try  his  wings,  and  suddenly,  burst 
ing  into  a  flood  of  song,  soared  upward  into 
the  sunlit  blue. 

The  Ant  fell  to  the  earth,  breathless  and 
paralyzed,  but  in  a  moment,  stifling  her 
pain  and  despair,  she  rose  up  and  began, 
from  mere  habit,  fitting  more  grains  of 
sand  into  her  unfinished  hill. 
62 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

A  Poet  walked  in  the  field  that  day, 
meditating  some  verses  upon  the  divine 
gift  of  genius.  He  cried  aloud  with  joy  at 
the  lark's  song,  and  while  he  gazed  upward 
stumbled  over  the  Ant's  hill  and  demol 
ished  it,  but  in  his  note-book  he  wrote  : 

"Oh,  miracle  of  Genius,  that  lifts  the 
Sons  of  God  on  golden  pinions  to  the  gates 
of  heaven,  while  the  dull  myriads  toil 
futilely  at  Babels  below." 

JANUARY  29. 

I  suppose  that  everyone  who  has  reached 
maturity  has  been  aware  of  a  sense  of  a 
dual  personality  —  of  a  something  The 
within  him  that  is  a  me  and  a  not  Doppei- 
me;  of  opposing  influences  that 
puzzle  his  judgment,  weaken  his  resolves, 
and  warp  his  intention.  These  natures  he 
finds  engaged  in  an  eternal  conflict  which 
sways  him  from  the  course  he  would  in 
stinctively  follow,  and  draws  him  along 
lines  of  thought  and  conduct  satisfying  to 
neither  side  of  his  being,  and  achieving 
only  a  helpless  compromise  between  the 
two. 

"To  be?"  — "Or  not  to  be?"  contend 
63 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

the  two  at  every  crossing  of  the  tangled 
meshes  of  existence,  and  neither  disputant 
is  ever  convinced  by  the  other's  logic. 

"To  sleep"  —  says  one.  "Perchance  to 
dream,"  replies  the  other  coldly;  and  so 
gives  pause  to  Hamlet's  swift  intentions. 

Which  is  the  real  man  ?  The  Hamlet 
whose  soul  lusts  for  sudden  brute  revenge, 
whose  promptings  are  the  instinctive  play 
of  the  natural  man,  or  that  frigid  censor 
who  checks  the  impulses  of  the  first  speaker 
and  chills  him  with  cold  reasons  and  bal 
ancings  of  right  and  wrong,  so  that  the 
sword  falls  from  his  nerveless  hand  at  the 
very  moment  of  opportunity  ?  Or  after 
all,  is  the  real  man  the  one  whose  actions 
are  a  continual  endeavour  to  steer  between 
the  two  promptings;  the  Hamlet  whose 
doings  are  not  in  direct  answer  to  either 
voice  —  are  but  furious  and  confused  out 
bursts  of  indecision  ? 

If  it  were  at  all  possible  to  decide  between 
the  two,  one  would  incline  to  think  that 
the  second  voice,  that  chilling  critic,  was 
another  self,  alien  to  us,  though  en 
trenched  in  the  very  depths  of  the  soul  — 
was  the  not  me,  in  everlasting  opposition 

64 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

to  the  me  —  was  the  past  warring  with  the 
present. 

The  warm,  impulsive,  blundering  me  we 
know,  but  who  is  that  other  ?  Whence 
comes  this  double,  this  alter  ego,  this 
bosom's  lord,  and  strange,  nameless  ghost 
who  haunts  the  house  of  life  ?  How  many 
thousand  deaths  have  we  died  to  give  him 
life  ?  For  he  is  inexpressibly  aged,  infi 
nitely  sophisticated;  and  while  the  me  still 
crowns  its  locks  with  youth's  golden  illu 
sions,  he  is  grey  with  knowledge  and  hoary 
with  disenchantment.  Though  a  part  of 
our  most  intimate  selves,  he  is  not  at  one 
with  us.  He  sympathizes  with  none  of  our 
enthusiasms,  is  tempted  by  none  of  our 
sins.  .  .  .  Sins!  .  .  .  what  should  he  do 
eating  forbidden  fruit  who  is  all  compounded 
of  the  knowledge  of  good  and  evil  ? 

"Ye  shall  be  as  gods,  having  eaten  of 
that  tree"  -and  like  a  god  he  sits  in  the 
dusk  of  the  soul's  seat,  knowing  the  past, 
predicating  the  future,  calmly  beholding 
the  fulfilling  of  our  destiny.  And  yet  is 
his  grim  wisdom  of  no  avail,  since  —  a 
shadowy  Cassandra  —  he  warns  in  vain. 
His  deity-ship  is  of  no  more  worth  than  that 

65 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

of  the  Olympian  heavens,  which  might 
punish  or  reward,  but  could  not  divert 
the  decrees  of  a  power  higher  than  itself. 
It  is  indeed  the  fate  of  all  gods  to  have  their 
creations  caught  from  between  their  shap 
ing  hands  by  the  blind,  fumbling  fingers 
with  the  shears.  Gods  may  teach;  may 
command;  may  ban  or  bless,  but  the  being 
once  made  is  Fate's  creature,  not  theirs. 

This  cynical,  impotent  dbppelganger  goes 
by  many  names.  His  Christian  cognomen 
is  Conscience,  and  his  voice  is  raised  to 
exalt  Christian  tenets  of  clean  living  and 
high  thinking. 

:<Thou  shalt  surely  die,"  he  declaims  from 
the  altar  where  he  wears  with  cheerful  in 
difference  the  livery  of  a  faith  in  which  he 
has  no  part,  and  we  walk  contentedly  in  the 
path  he  designates,  flattering  ourselves  upon 
being  upheld  and  guided  by  the  voice  of 
omnipotent  truth,  until  passion  trips  our 
heels  with  some  hidden  snare,  and,  rolling 
headlong  in  the  mire,  we  lift  our  stained 
faces  in  astonishment  to  behold  that  calm- 
lidded  countenance  all  unstirred  by  our 
wild  mishap.  He  foresaw,  but  he  was 
helpless  to  prevent,  nor  does  he  greatly 
66 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

care,  since  he  also  knows  that  age  after 
age  every  reincarnation  of  the  spirit  must 
be  tempted  anew  by  the  ever-renewed,  ever- 
lustful,  unalterable  flesh. 

Weissman  diverts  himself  and  indulges 
the  Teutonic  weakness  for  word-building 
by  naming  this  double  self  the  "germ- 
plasm"  -that  immortal,  eternal  seed  of 
life  that  links  the  generations  in  an  un 
broken  chain;  changing  and  developing 
only  through  the  unreckonable  processes 
of  time,  and  taking  heed  not  at  all  of  the 
mere  passing  accidents  of  fleeting  avatars. 

Why  should  not  this  germ-plasm,  this 
eternal  ghost,  be  infinitely  sophisticated  ? 
What  surprises  can  its  mere  momentary 
envelope  contrive  for  a  consciousness  as 
old  as  the  moon  ?  If  temptations  seduce 
the  young  flesh,  though  the  old,  old  soul 
declares  with  scorn  that  teeth  are  set  on 
edge  by  the  eating  of  sour  grapes,  it  is  not 
surprised  at  all  when  the  body  persists  in 
its  will  to  seize  upon  the  fruit  of  its  desire, 
having  seen  in  everyone  of  a  myriad  gen 
erations  the  same  obstinacy  and  weakness 
of  the  flesh,  which  learns  little  and  very 
hardly  from  the  spirit. 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

Now  and  again  —  in  his  moments  of 
exalted  seriousness  —  man  listens  to  this 
ancient  voice  of  the  spirit  breathing  the 
accumulated  experience  of  time,  and  then 
it  imposes  upon  him  the  ripened  wisdom 
of  its  long  retrospect  of  the  generations, 
and  man  creates  religions  —  by  which  he 
does  not  square  his  conduct  —  or  philoso 
phies  —  whose  bit  he  immediately  takes 
between  his  teeth.  But  for  the  most  part 
he  stops  his  ears  to  the  soul's  stern,  sad 
preaching  with  the  thick  wax  of  sentiment- 
alism,  and  that  undying  determination  that 
life  shall  be  not  what  it  is,  but  what  he 
wishes  it  to  be  —  and  so  stumbles  along, 
through  ever-renewed  pangs  and  tragedies, 
after  a  mirage  in  the  hard  desert  of  exist 
ence,  to  whose  stones  and  flints,  despite 
his  bruises,  he  will  not  turn  his  eyes.  And 
well  it  is  for  us  that  upon  many  the  mantle 
of  flesh  lies  so  warm  and  thick  that  this 
ghost  called  consciousness  of  self  cannot 
chill  their  blood  with  his  dank  wisdom 
breathed  from  out  a  world  of  graves.  In 
the  hearts  of  such  as  these  all  the  sweet 
illusions  of  existence  came  to  full  and 
natural  bloom.  To  their  lusty  egoism  life 

68 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

has  all  the   exhilaration   and   freshness  of 
a  new  and  special  creation. 

Far  otherwise  is  it  with  the  haunted 
man,  whose  dwelling  is  blighted  by  that 
cold  presence  with  its  terrible  memory. 
Forever  echoes  through  his  chambers  the 
cry  that  hope  will  be  unfulfilled,  that  love 
will  die,  the  morning  fade,  that  what  has 
been  will  be  again  and  forever  again; 
that  the  waters  of  life  will  climb  the  shore 
only  to  crawl  back  again  into  the  blind 
deeps  of  eternity;  that  the  unit  is  forever 
lost  in  the  eternal  ebb  and  flux  of  matter. 
Endeavour  can  find  no  footing  in  this  pro 
fundity  of  experience.  To  all  desire,  all 
aspiration,  the  ghost  says  in  a  paralyzing 
whisper: 

"Scipio,  remember  that  thou  art  a  man 
-that  everything  has  been  done  even  if 
thou  doest  it  not  —  that  everything  will 
be  done  whether  thou  doest  it  or  no.  .  .  . 
Where  are  the  poems  that  were  written  in 
Baalbec?  Where  the  pictures  that  were 
painted  in  Tadmor  of  the  Wilderness  ? 
Are  there  fewer  pictures  and  poems  to-day 
because  the  men  who  made  them  are  not  ? 
Who  was  prime  minister  to  the  bearded 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

King  of  Babylon  ?  Where  is  his  fame  ? 
.  .  .  Ay,  drink  this  cup  if  you  will,  but  you 
know  well  the  taste  of  it  is  not  good  at  the 
bottom.  You  have  drunk  it  a  thousand 
thousand  of  times,  and  the  taste  was  never 
good,  and  yet  you  will  drink  it  a  thousand 
times  again,  hoping  always  that  it  will  be 
good."  .  .  . 

And  the  haunted  man  sits  with  idle 
hands  and  withered  purpose,  listening  al 
ways  to  the  voice,  while  his  neighbours 
push  loudly  on  to  die  futilely  but  gloriously 
in  the  unending  battle. 

"An  end  -of  -the  -century  disease,"  say 
these  full-fed,  happy  egotists  with  lowered 
breath  and  eyes  askance  as  they  pass  the 
haunted  house.  :<The  mould  of  age  has 
fallen  upon  him  and  made  him  mad." 
Yet  before  the  walls  of  Troy  these  two  — 
the  ghost-ridden,  and  the  happy  egotist  — 
battled  for  the  glowing  shadow  of  a  woman 
whom  neither  man  loved  nor  desired. 
Achilles,  blackly  melancholy  in  his  tent, 
heard  the  old  voice  cry 

**>£>>'">  *     t      \  \         y&\  \     » 

"cv  oe  Lr)  Tififl  rjfJLfv  KO,KOS  7706  KCU  ec 


and  disdains  the  greatness  of  life  and  the 

70 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

littleness  of  it.  To  an  iron  inevitableness 
of  fate  he  opposes  only  indifference  and 
an  unbending  courage.  That  which  has 
been  will  be,  and  the  end  is  death  and  dark 
ness.  He  has  no  illusions.  He  wars  neither 
for  love  of  country  nor  love  of  Helen. 
If  Troy  falls  nothing  is  gained.  If  the 
Greeks  fail  nothing  will  be  lost.  In  time 
all  the  sweat  and  blood  shed  upon  Ilium's 
windy  plain  will  evaporate  into  a  mere  mist 
of  uncredited  legend.  In  Achilles,  the  other 
self,  the  alter  ego,  is  the  stronger  man.  The 
ghost  of  dead  experience  is  as  living  as  he. 
Not  so  is  it  with  Hector.  All  the  passions 
of  humanity  are  as  new  and  fresh  to  him 
as  if  none  before  himself  had  known  them. 
He  looks  neither  forward  nor  back.  The 
present  is  his  concern.  What  though  men 
have  died  and  been  forgotten,  he  will  not 
lessen  his  utmost  effort,  even  to  the  giving 
up  of  his  life  to  save  Troy.  That  is  to 
him  the  one  thing  of  importance.  So 
robust  is  his  courage,  his  faith,  his  love, 
that  the  sad  spirit  of  memory  within  him 
cannot  speak  loud  enough  to  make  him 
hear.  There  is  no  warring  of  dual  per 
sonalities  in  him;  he  is  aware  of  but  one  — 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

that  rich  momentary  incarnation  called 
Hector,  more  potent  than  the  memories 
and  experiences  of  the  thousands  of  lives 
that  preceded  him,  that  gave  him  existence. 

What  though  Achilles  was  right;  what 
though  both  be  but  dust  and  legend  now  — 
who  would  not  choose  that  flash  of  being 
called  Hector  —  Hector  dragged  at  the 
chariot-heel  of  Achilles — Hector  with  wife 
enslaved  and  children  slaughtered  and  his 
city's  proud  towers  levelled  with  the  plain, 
rather  than  to  have  been  the  haunted 
victor,  triumphing  but  not  triumphant; 
fighting  without  purpose  or  hope  ?  The 
same  end  indeed  came  to  both,  but  one 
died  as  he  lived,  for  what  he  thought  a  glori 
ous  end,  while  the  other  too  passed  away  — 
but  with  the  cold  knowledge  that  both 
deaths  were  fruitless  and  vain. 

Troy  is  a  dream,  but  the  battle  forever 
is  waged  between  the  fresh  incarnation  of 
being  and  the  memories  of  past  being. 
Every  creature  wakes  out  of  childhood 
aware  that  he  lives  not  alone  in  even  the 
secretest  chambers  of  his  life.  Which  is 
the  /  he  cannot  always  say.  The  two 
companions  are  never  at  one.  Sometimes 

72 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

the  struggle  breaks  into  open  flame.  Some 
times  the  one  is  victor,  sometimes  the  van 
quished.  Each  rights  for  Helen,  for  his 
ideal  of  pleasure,  of  wisdom,  or  of  good, 
but  in  the  very  handgrips  of  battle  a  chilling 
doubt  will  fall  between  them  whether  she 
for  whom  they  war  —  call  her  virtue,  beauty, 
lust,  life,  what  you  will  — is  the  real  Queen, 
or  only  some  misleading  eidolon  whose  true 
self  is  hid  in  distant  Sparta;  and  so  the 
grasp  relaxes,  the  tense  breath  falls  free, 
the  selves  mingle.  Man  gropes  for  truth 
and  finds  it  vague,  intangible,  not  to  be 
grasped  —  a  dream. 

FEBRUARY  17. 

What  is  that  ineffable  quality  in  the  air 
that  says  Spring? 

Long  ago,  as  far  back  as  towards  the 
end  of  January,  there  came  sud-   «  A  Young 
denly  one   day  a   sense  that  the   Man's 
winter  was  conquered.     There  has 
been  much  cold  weather  since  —  we  shall 
have  much  cold  still,  but  there  is  always  a 
promise  in  the  air. 

There  is  a  sad  day  later  in  the  year  when 
one  is  aware  all  at  once  that  summer  is 

73 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

ending,  and  the  warm,  mild  weeks  that 
follow  never  console  for  that  hour's  realiza 
tion  that  the  apex  is  crossed  and  the  rest 
of  the  path  slopes  downward.  Just  such 
a  day  comes  in  one's  life,  —  while  one  is 
still  young  and  strong  —  a  sudden  sense 
that  youth  is  done;  the  climacteric  of  passion 
passed.  Life  has  a  long  Indian  summer 
still,  but  it's  never  again  the  real  thing,  — 
that  ripening  toward  fruition;  that  ecstasy 
of  expansion  and  growth.  There  is  no 
visible  change  for  a  while,  yet  every  day 
there  is  an  imperceptible  fall  in  the  tem 
perature.  Always  the  nights  are  growing 
longer.  The  flowers  drop  away  one  by 
one  —  the  sap  sinks  a  little,  leaving  the 
extreme  delicate  twigs  moribund.  No  one 
has  seen  the  leaves  fall,  yet  there  are  fewer 
upon  the  bough  —  winter  is  coming. 

Age  is  peaceful,  perhaps  —  but  middle 
age  — !  The  wave  clings  to  the  shore, 
but  the  inexorable  ebb  draws  it  down  relent 
lessly  into  the  deep.  This  is  the  time  that 
men  go  musth,  like  old  elephants.  This 
is  the  period  when  both  men  and  women 
do  their  mad  deeds,  which  belie  all  their 
previous  records.  It  is  their  one  last  fran- 

74 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

tic  clutch  after  vanishing  romance  and 
passion.  Men  buy  a  semblance  of  it  from 
young  women  sometimes,  and  resolutely 
endeavour  to  persuade  themselves  that  it 
is  the  real  thing  —  that  gold  can  renew 
youth,  can  purchase  a  second  summer  —  but 
they  know  well  that  it  is  only  a  mechanical 
imitation.  Those  cruel  old  satirists,  the 
comedy  writers,  loved  to  paint  the  trembling 
dotard  resolutely  shutting  his  eyes  to  the 
lusty  young  rival  hiding  behind  the  jade's 
petticoats. 

As  for  the  women !  —  who  shall  tell  the 
real  story  of  the  middle  age  of  women  ?  - 
of  the  confident  coquette,  who  one  day 
turns  away  to  punish  her  slave,  and  finds, 
when  she  relents,  that  his  eyes  are  fixed 
upon  her  daughter  ?  —  of  the  bewildered 
inspection  of  the  mirror,  that  still  tells  a 
fluttering  tale  of  curves  and  colours,  though 
startled  experience  shows  the  eyes  of  men 
turning  in  preference  to  crude,  red-elbowed 
girls,  obviously  her  inferior  in  grace  and 
charm  ?  —  of  the  shock  of  finding  that 
the  world  is  no  longer  much  interested  in 
her  —  the  amazement  of  the  discovery  that 
the  handsome  lads  see  little  difference  be- 

75 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

tween  a  woman  of  thirty-five  and  one  of 
fifty? — of  the  shame -faced  misery  of 
learning  that  the  passion,  which  she  has 
virtuously  resolved  to  repulse,  is  given  in 
reality  to  her  niece  ?  Her  charm,  her 
sweetness,  her  well-preserved  beauty  is  as 
nothing  beside  mere  raw  youth.  Unde 
veloped  figures,  flat  chests,  blotchy  com 
plexions,  are  of  more  value  than  her 
rounded  mellow  loveliness.  She  is  pushed 
from  her  throne  by  giggling  girls,  who 
stare  at  her  in  hard  contempt  and  wonder 
openly  what  the  old  creature  does  linger 
ing  belated  in  this  galley. 

Though  she  be  called  "a  fine  woman'* 
still,  men  of  all  ages  will  turn  from  her  to 
dote  upon  an  empty-headed  debutante. 
Her  comprehension  and  sympathy,  her  wit 
and  her  learning  are  less  enthralling  than 
the  vapid  babblings  of  red-cheeked  misses 
just  out  of  pinafores.  Her  heart  is  as 
young  as  ever;  she  knows  herself  capable 
of  a  finer,  nobler  passion  and  tenderness 
than  the  girl  can  dream  of,  yet  the  selfish, 
egotistic  emotions  of  the  self-confident  chit 
awake  a  rapture  that  would  be  dulled  by 
the  richest  warmth  she  could  give. 

76 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

"Age,  I  do  abhor  thee: 
Youth,  I  do  adore  thee; 
O,  my  love,  my  love  is  young!  " 

That  she  in  her  turn  elbowed  the  preced 
ing  generation  from  its  place  comforts  her 
not  at  all.  Oh,  for  again  one  hour  only  of 
the  splendid  domination  of  youth  —  one 
rich  instant  of  the  power  to  intoxicate!  .  .  . 

There  is  nothing  for  it  but  to  keep  such 
things  to  one's  self,  and  jog  on  quietly  and 
respectably  to  the  end.  One  has  had  one's 
turn. 


That  mad  girl  Spring  has  passed  up  this  way 

With  a  hole  in  her  pockets, 
For  here  lies  her  money  all  strewn  in  the  grass  — 

Broad  dandelion  ducats. 

She'll  be  needing  this  wealth  ere  the  end  of  the  year 

For  a  warm  winter  gown, 
Though  now  she's  content  with  a  breast-knot  of  buds 

And  a  violet  crown. 

She  heard  in  the  green  blooming  depths  of  the  wood 

The  voice  of  a  dove, 
And  she  dropped  all  these  flowering  coins  as  she  ran 

To  meet  summer  and  love. 

'Twill  not  serve  you  to  gather  from  out  her  wild  path 

All  your  two  hands  can  hold  — 
Only  youth  and  the  Spring  may  buy  kisses  and  mirth 

With  this  frail  fairy  gold. 

77 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

FEBRUARY  18. 

There  has  been  great  recrudescence  of 
the  Essay  of  late  —  none  of  it  very  impor- 
An  tant,  I  take  the  liberty  of  think- 

AraWan      ing.     We  moderns  have  lost  the 
Looking-     trick  Of  jt      All  of  us,  at  least,  but 


Stevenson,  and  he  hardly  seems  a 
modern,  so  closely  is  he  related  to  the  great 
classics,  with  his  inheritance  of  the  Grand 
Style,  like  the  bel  canto,  now  a  lost  art.  And 
yet  the  Essay  is  a  great  temptation.  Doubt 
less  not  one  of  all  those  who  go  down  into 
the  ink-bottle  with  pens  has  quite  escaped 
its  seduction.  Generally  it  is,  I  suspect, 
merely  an  outcropping  of  the  somewhat 
too  widely  known  need  of  the  artistic 
nature  for  "self-expression"  in  more  defi 
nite  terms  than  ordinary  work  permits. 

The  young  fellows,  still  walking  in  the 
light  of  the  eternal  pulchritudes,  are  touch- 
ingly  anxious  lest  they  "falsify  themselves" 
-  pathetically  unaware  of  the  supreme 
unconcern  of  the  rest  of  humanity  as  to 
their  personal  veracity.  The  line  between 
art  and  the  other  thing  is  drawn  just  across 
this  zone  of  egotism.  :<The  other  thing" 

78 


THE    SECRET    LIFE 

is  a  man's  expression  of  himself;  Art  is  the 
mirror  in  which  each  observer  sees  only 
his  own  face.  The  Arabian  legend  of  the 
prosperous  old  beggar  who,  making  a  pil 
grimage  to  Mecca,  left  to  his  son,  as  his 
sole  means  of  support,  a  looking-glass,  and 
returned  to  find  the  boy  starving  and  gazing 
into  the  mirror  himself,  is  supposed  to 
cynically  suggest  the  uses  of  judicious 
flattery,  but  has  deeper  application.  Speak 
of  yourself  —  the  world  yawns.  Talk  to 
it  of  itself  —  rudely,  vaguely,  profoundly, 
how  you  will  —  and  it  hangs  upon  your 
lips.  Turn  the  mirror  toward  it  and  it 
says  proudly,  "Of  just  such  exalted  devotion 
and  sacrifice  am  I  capable,"  or  mutters 
with  a  shudder,  "There,  but  for  the  grace 
of  God,  goes  Augustine." 

The  tenor  sings  "Sous  ta  Fenetre"  and 
every  face  is  lighted  by  the  inner  shining 
of  romance.  The  strangest  revelations  are 
discerned  upon  the  countenances  of  respect 
able  matrons,  of  range  men  of  affairs. 
They  beat  their  hands  together  in  a  flood 
ing  wave  of  applause,  and  the  greasy 
Italian  in  his  uneasy  evening  dress  swells 
with  a  strutting  consciousness  of  his  vocal 

79 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

chords,  of  his  method,  his  upper  C,  of  his 
own  value. 

O  temporal  O  mores!  He  is  nothing 
whatever  to  them.  It  is  only  that  in  every 
human  heart  there  is  a  chord  that  vibrates 
to  C  in  alt.  They  are  quite  unaware  of 
him,  and  of  his  greasy  personality.  Every 
man  is  singing  with  his  own  soul's  voice 
under  the  lattice  of  his  first  beloved.  Every 
woman  is  leaning  to  listen  to  a  dream  lover 
yearning  up  to  her  through  the  warm 
scented  moonlight.  As  for  the  garlicky 
loves  of  the  singer  they  care  not  one  jot 
whether  he  loves  or  not.  It  is  all  a  ques 
tion  of  themselves,  of  a  vibration. 

MARCH  4. 

The  Cry  I  have  been  clearing  out  a  lot  of 
of  the  old  books,  preparatory  to  moving, 
en'  and  have  been  amused  to  see  how 
empty  and  dead  many  already  are,  which  a 
few  years  since  were  raging  through  edition 
after  edition,  and  were  the  subject  of  so  much 
talk  and  interest.  Already  more  than  half 
have  grown  as  desiccated  and  unimportant 
as  last  year's  leaves,  and  their  "timeliness" 
seems  of  a  time  as  far  past  as  the  deluge. 

80 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

There  was  among  these  dead  books  a  group 
on  the  Woman  Question,  which  already, 
in  so  short  a  space,  has  lost  all  its  interroga 
tion  point.  Is  it  that  there  was  really  no 
Woman  Question,  or  has  the  Question 
already  received  an  answer? 

Usually  one  is  inclined  to  think  that  when 
a  book  voices  with  truth  and  passion  the 
needs  and  thoughts  of  even  a  portion  of 
humanity,  it  has  a  real  claim  to  be  classed 
as  literature,  though  it  fails  of  the  immor 
tality  which  is  the  meed  only  of  such  writings 
as  express  with  beautiful  verity  the  im 
mortal,  unchanging  needs  of  life.  But 
already  one  regards  with  amused  indiffer 
ence  yesterday's  crop  of  novels  written  by 
women,  with  their  vague  ecstasies  of  long 
ing,  their  confused  cries  of  discontent, 
their  indistinct  moans  and  reproaches, 
though  such  a  very  short  time  since  those 
books  faithfully  expressed  the  mental  state 
of  the  sex,  as  one  could  not  doubt,  seeing 
the  greediness  with  which  editions  were 
called  for  of  :'The  Heavenly  Twins," 
"Keynotes,"  "A  Superfluous  Woman,"  and 
their  like,  or  listening  to  the  echoes  awaked 
by  their  inchoate  sentiments  in  the  feminine 
81 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

mind.  Yet  the  sum  of  the  protest  of  all 
these  books  by  women  was  like  the  cry  of 
an  infant  —  suffering  but  inarticulate. 

I  suppose  the  truth  is  that  even  so 
short  a  time  since  free  thought  and  free 
speech  were  still  so  new  to  women  that, 
struggling  in  the  swaddling  bands  of  igno 
rance  and  convention,  it  was  small  wonder 
that  she  could  not  state  with  precision,  or 
even  define  clearly  to  herself,  where  her 
pain  lay,  nor  how  she  would  allay  it.  She 
knew  she  was  in  revolt  against  what  had 
been.  She  could  not  yet  choose  what  she 
would  change  in  the  future.  Some  of  them 
cried  out  for  larger  political  rights,  others 
were  convinced  that  the  abolition  of  stays 
and  the  introduction  of  trousers  was  all 
that  was  needed  to  produce  a  feminine 
millennium. 

"Latch-keys!"  cried  the  browbeaten 
English  girls  —  "and  freedom  to  be  out 
after  dark  like  our  own  brothers.  Look 
at  the  men.  They  are  quite  happy.  It 
must  be  the  possession  of  latch-keys  that 
makes  them  so:  give  them  also  to  us." 

"No,"  roundly  declared  a  certain  Mona 
Caird,  "what  we  really  need  is  a  latch-key 

82 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

to  let  us  out  of  the  lifelong  oppressive  bond 
of  marriage.  It  weighs  too  heavily  upon 
us  —  let  us  go  free!" 

"Nonsense!"  contradicted  Sarah  Grand. 
"Marriage  is  all  right.  What  is  wrong  is 
man.  He  comes  to  the  marriage  altar  with 
stained  and  empty  hands,  while  he  demands 
that  ours  be  spotless,  and  heaped  with 
youth,  health,  innocence,  and  faith.  He 
swindles  us.  Reform  man  if  you  would 
make  us  happy!" 

"Higher  education"  "Equal  wages" 
—  "Physical  development"  "No  house 
hold  drudgery"  "Expansion  of  the  ego," 
cried  the  conflicting  voices;  each  with  a 
quack  panacea  for  the  disease  of  discon 
tent. 

Can  it  be  that  all  this  was  but  ten  years 
ago?  How  quickly  ideas  are  changing! 

I  think  that  this  noise  among  the  women 
was  the  last  wave  of  the  democratic  ideal 
expending  itself.  It  was  their  restlessness 
under  a  sense  of  their  inferiority  to  man. 
Until  the  nineteenth  century,  woman  had 
been  content  to  accept  the  male  of  her  kind, 
with  his  mental  and  physical  endowments, 
as  the  true  standard  of  human  excellence, 

83 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

and  to  humbly  admit  that  she  permanently 
failed  to  reach  that  standard. 

The  universality  of  the  democratic  ideal 
aroused  in  her  at  last  an  unwillingness  to 
admit  her  innate  inferiority,  and  drove  her 
to  a  desperate  search  for  some  fountain 
of  Salmacis  that  should  transmute  her  to 
an  exact  likeness  of  her  long-time  lord 
and  superior.  The  search,  of  course,  was 
delayed  and  confused  by  that  furious  and 
debasing  fin  de  siecle  demand  for  happiness 
at  all  cost.  She  heard  no  talk  anywhere 
of  courage,  submission,  or  duty.  The  later 
decades  of  the  democratic  century  had 
refused  to  contemplate  the  world-old  riddle 
of  the  blind  Fates  who  create  one  vessel 
to  honour  and  another  to  dishonour.  So 
woman,  no  more  than  her  fellows,  would 
consider  the  caprices  of  destiny  which  from 
the  union  of  one  man  and  one  woman  will 
produce  an  heir  to  beauty,  talent,  and  suc 
cess,  and  from  the  same  union  —  without 
volition  or  intention  upon  anyone's  part  - 
brings  forth  a  cripple,  an  idiot,  or  the  help 
less  Inadequate,  who  is  foredoomed  to 
failure  with  a  grim  gravitation  no  human 
laws  or  institutions  can  arrest.  The  nine- 

84 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

teenth  century  was  a  sentimental  one;  un 
willing  to  consider  unpleasant  truths.  "All 
men  are  born  equal,"  it  stubbornly  persisted 
in  asserting,  and  then  was  rather  shocked 
when  some  of  its  offspring  sought  this 
equality  of  happiness  at  the  sword's  point 
or  the  bomb's  fuse  —  as  if  content  was  a 
coin  to  be  stolen  and  concealed  about  the 
person  of  the  thief. 

Of  course,  the  women  finally  became 
infected  with  the  bacillus  of  unsound  ideas, 
and  struggling  against  the  immutable  bur 
den  of  sex  ran  to  and  fro,  crying  "Lo, 
here!"  and  "Lo,  there!"  and  wailing, 
"Where  is  my  happiness?  Who  has  my 
happiness  ?  You  men  have  stolen  and  are 
keeping  it  from  me!" 

A  certain  part  of  the  charge  was  true, 
too.  Men  had  filched  from  her. 

The  theft  was  not  a  new  one.  If  the 
statute  of  limitations  could  ever  run  in 
crimes  against  nature  it  might  have  almost 
ceased  to  be  a  wrong  in  this  case,  after  the 
lapse  of  nearly  two  thousand  years. 

Morgan  in  his  "Ancient  Society,"  deal 
ing  with  the  question  of  Mutter-Recht, 
declares  that  throughout  the  earliest  period 
85 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

of  human  existence  regarding  which  any 
knowledge  is  attainable,  descent  and  all 
rights  of  succession  were  traced  through 
the  women  of  the  gens  or  clans,  into  which 
primitive  man  was  organized.  Women, 
as  being  the  bearers  and  protectors  of  the 
young,  were  regarded  as  the  natural  land 
owners,  and  therefore  did  not  leave  their 
homes  to  follow  the  fathers  of  their  chil 
dren,  lest  they  should  lose  their  own 
possessions  and  rights  of  inheritance.  In 
stead,  the  men  married  into  the  sept  of 
their  wives.  The  power  and  independence 
of  women  was  lost  at  last  through  the 
practice  of  making  female  captives  in  war. 
These  had  no  land  and  were  the  property 
of,  and  dependent  upon  the  will  of,  their 
male  captor.  In  course  of  time  men  natu 
rally  grew  to  prefer  these  subservient  wives. 
The  Arab  advises  his  son:  "It  is  better  to 
have  a  wife  with  no  claims  of  kin  and  no 
brethren  near  to  take  her  part." 

Women  therefore  began  to  dread  cap 
ture  as  the  greatest  of  evils.  After  the 
movements  of  vast  hordes  began  —  the 
marches  of  the  race  columns  across  the 
continents  —  with  their  wars  of  spoliation 

86 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

and  conquest,  there  was  no  security  save 
in  physical  strength,  and  the  females  yielded 
all  claims  to  the  men  in  return  for  protec 
tion.  It  was  better,  they  thought,  to  be  a 
slave  at  home  than  a  slave  among  strangers. 
Still  the  man,  while  asserting  physical  su 
periority,  claimed  none  morally.  Under 
the  pagan  rule  of  Rome,  the  jurisconsults, 
by  their  theory  of  "Natural  Law,"  evi 
dently  assumed  the  equality  of  the  sexes 
as  a  principle  of  their  code  of  equity.  Sir 
Henry  Maine  says  there  came  a  time  "when 
the  situation  of  the  female,  married  or 
unmarried,  became  one  of  great  personal 
and  proprietary  independence;  for  the  tend 
ency  of  the  later  law  .  .  .  was  to  reduce 
the  power  of  the  guardian  to  a  nullity, 
while  the  form  of  marriage  conferred  on 
the  husband  no  compensating  superiority." 
Among  the  Germanic  races  of  the  Roman 
period,  a  woman  was  occasionally  ruler 
of  the  tribe,  and  the  blue-eyed  wife  of  the 
roving  Barbarian,  as  well  as  the  proud 
Roman  matron,  were  held  alike  in  high 
esteem  for  their  functions  as  wife  and 
mother.  The  priestess  crowned  with  oak 
leaves,  officiating  at  the  sylvan  altars  of  the 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

forest,  or  the  Vestal  Virgin  serving  the 
fires  of  the  white  temples  of  Rome,  were 
alike  held  worthy  of  speaking  face  to  face 
with  the  gods  and  of  conveying  their  bless 
ings  to  man.  It  was  the  humble  religion 
of  Judea  —  which  women  embraced  with 
ardour,  and  to  which  they  were  early  and 
willing  martyrs  —  that  cursed  them  with 
a  deadly  curse.  It  denied  woman  not  only 
mental  and  physical,  but  moral  equality 
with  man,  and  besmirched  the  very  foun 
tain  and  purpose  of  her  being  with  a  shame 
ful  stain.  It  made  her  presence  in  the 
most  holy  places  a  desecration,  and  for 
the  first  time  regarded  her  feminine  func 
tions  as  a  disgrace  rather  than  a  glory. 
And  this  although  the  founder  of  the  Chris 
tian  faith  had  set  an  example  of  reverence 
and  tenderness  for  the  sex  in  his  own  life, 
and  had  left  his  mother  to  be  raised  to  a 
heavenly  throne  by  his  worshippers.  Never 
from  his  lips  had  fallen  a  word  that  could 
give  warrant  for  the  insult  offered  woman 
by  his  church.  He  was  the  first  of  all  men 
living  to  denounce  the  injustice  of  visiting 
upon  the  woman  the  whole  penalty  of  a 
double  sin,  and  his  life  was  beautified  with 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

the  tenderest  friendships  with  women.  But 
already,  before  a  church  had  been  fairly 
organized,  Paul  was  dictating  silence  to 
women,  covered  heads  and  supreme  sub 
mission  to  the  male,  and  was  declaring 
against  marriage  as  a  weakness.  If  a 
man  must  marry  because  of  his  weakness, 
he  might  do  so,  but  not  to  marry  was 
better. 

Scorn  of  woman  and  her  functions 
grew.  Antagonism  to  marriage  intensified. 
Woman  by  the  very  law  of  her  existence 
was  a  curse  and  a  temptation  to  sin.  Hear 
Tertullian  —  one  of  the  fathers  of  the 
Church  —  on  this  subject: 

"Do  you  not  know  that  each  one  of  you 
is  an  Eve  ?  The  sentence  of  God  on  this 
sex  of  yours  lives  in  this  age;  the  guilt  must 
of  necessity  live  too.  You  are  the  devil's 
gateway;  you  are  the  unsealer  of  the  for 
bidden  tree;  you  are  the  first  deserter  of 
the  divine  law;  you  are  she  who  persuaded 
him  who  the  devil  was  not  valiant  enough 
to  attack.  You  destroyed  so  easily  God's 
image,  man.  On  account  of  your  desert  - 
that  is  death  —  the  Son  of  God  had  to  die!" 

This  is  but  one  of  a  thousand  similar 
89 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

insults  by  the  early  writers  of  the  Church 
—  all  Patristic  books  bristle  with  them. 

Lecky,  comparing  the  Roman  juris 
prudence  with  the  canon  or  ecclesiastical 
law,  remarks  that  "the  Pagan  laws  dur 
ing  the  earlier  centuries  of  the  Empire 
were  constantly  repealing  the  disabilities  of 
women,  whereas  it  was  the  aim  of  the 
canon  law  to  substitute  enactments  which 
should  impose  upon  the  female  sex  the 
most  offensive  personal  restrictions  and 
stringent  subordination." 

Even  marriage  and  the  production  of 
offspring  —  which  in  the  pagan  world  had 
been  an  honour  to  both  sexes  —  was  stig 
matized.  No  priest  of  God  might  ap 
proach  a  woman,  scarcely  even  look  at  her, 
and  no  woman  was  allowed  to  serve  at 
God's  altar.  Celibacy  was  a  virtue  so 
great  in  man  that  none  set  apart  for  the 
highest  duties  might  marry,  and  woman 
was  encouraged  to  suppress  in  herself  all 
the  sweet  and  wholesome  instincts  for 
motherhood  —  an  instinct  upon  which  the 
race  hung  dependent,  one  for  which  she 
willingly  suffered  the  sharp  pangs  of  child 
birth  —  and  instead  to  immure  herself  in 
90 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

convents  and  endeavour  to  find  solace  in 
the  spiritual  ecstasies  of  morbid  meditation. 

Now  was  woman  at  last  robbed  and  poor 
indeed!  Her  social  and  civil  equality  hav 
ing  been  yielded  in  exchange  for  protec 
tion,  her  protectors  had  bereft  her  of  all 
moral  rights,  and  denounced  as  unclean 
the  function  for  the  perfect  performance 
of  which  she  had  paid  out  all  her  goods. 
It  was  the  triumph  of  the  Oriental  idea 
over  the  ideals  of  the  Occident,  and  so 
deeply  did  the  Eastern  thought  stamp  itself 
upon  the  Western  mind  that  only  to-day 
the  latter  begins  to  free  itself  from  the  yoke 
of  the  Asian  Paul's  fierce  egotism  of  sex. 
So  deeply  indeed  did  this  thought  pene 
trate,  that  historians  do  not  hesitate  to 
attribute  to  this  scorn  of  woman  and  her 
mission  of  childbearing  a  long  delay  in  the 
development  of  European  civilization.  The 
higher  spiritual  natures,  being  more  under 
the  influence  of  the  Church,  accepted  its 
suggestions  of  asceticism  and  left  the  baser 
sort  to  perpetuate  the  race  and  thus  delayed 
the  processes  of  evolution. 

It  was  the  denial  by  the  Church  of  the 
beauty  and  nobility  of  natural  love  that 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

drove  the  Middle  Ages  to  the  invention  of 
chivalry  and  the  romantic  love  of  the  un- 
wedded,  that  they  might  evade  the  ban 
and  find  some  outlet  for  the  emotions. 

With  the  Reformation,  that  first  upris 
ing  of  the  Western  mind  against  Asian 
domination,  men  threw  off  the  yoke  in  so 
far  as  it  bound  their  own  necks,  and  de 
clared  the  Tightness  and  reasonableness 
of  all  their  mental  and  physical  functions. 
It  was  no  longer  a  shame  for  the  priest 
of  God  to  mate  with  a  woman,  nor  a 
weakness  for  a  man  to  round  his  life  with 
the  fulness  of  joy  to  be  found  in  connubial 
love,  when  he  at  the  same  time  assumed 
its  duties  and  responsibilities.  The  in 
grained  contempt  of  women  was  not  so 
easily  eradicated.  Honour  the  man  defined 
for  himself  as  integrity,  wholeness,  a  develop 
ment  of  every  power  to  its  highest  possi 
bility.  Honour  for  woman  was  simply 
chastity.  That  is  to  say,  if  she  repressed 
all  the  animal  side  of  life  she  might  entirely 
neglect  the  spiritual.  She  might  be  but 
indifferently  honest,  a  liar,  a  slanderer  and 
a  tattler,  guilty  of  every  minor  baseness, 
and  yet  be  held  in  good  and  honourable 
92 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

repute.  The  wonder  is  that  woman's 
morals  survived  at  all  so  false  a  training! 
Centuries  of  such  teaching  wrought  their 
wretched  work  despite  all  the  forces  of 
nature.  Virginity  instead  of  purity  be 
came  the  ideal  of  the  highest  type  of  woman, 
who  shrank  from  the  fulfilment  of  her 
functions  as  a  stepping  down,  instead  of 
glorying  in  it  as  the  fulfilment  of  her  sacred 
purpose.  What  had  been  urged  upon  her 
upon  every  side  she  endeavoured  to  con 
form  to  in  the  spirit  as  well  as  the  letter. 
Her  mind  strained  towards  the  virginal  as 
well  as  her  body.  The  higher  type  of 
woman  cried  out  to  man  for  spiritual  rather 
than  physical  love,  and  she  found  his 
natural  sane  tenderness  for  her  person  bru 
tal  rather  than  beautiful.  The  young  girl, 
seduously  guarded  from  knowledge  of  the 
fundamental  reasons  of  her  being,  cast  sud 
denly  and  unprepared  into  marriage,  shrank 
with  disgust  from  a  relation  which  her  hus 
band  —  educated  in  wholeness  of  thought 
—  regarded  as  the  culmination  of  the  flower 
of  life  into  its  fruit.  It  is  not  too  much 
to  say  that  four  fifths  of  all  modest,  pure 
girls  —  as  a  result  of  their  foolish  training 
93 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

—  contemplated  the  sexual  relation  with 
the  bitterest  reluctance.  They  had  been 
led  to  believe  that  virginity  was  in  itself  a 
virtue,  instead  of  regarding  it  only  as  the 
sanctification  of  the  body  until  such  time 
as  it  legitimately  becomes  the  temple  of 
life.  With  many  this  feeling  survived  mar 
riage,  and  embittered  it  to  both  the  wife, 
who  resented  what  she  looked  upon  as  a 
baser  nature  in  the  man,  and  to  the  man 
who  resented,  and  was  rebuffed  by  the 
coldness  of  his  companion. 

At  least  half  of  the  disappointments  and 
failures  of  marriage  arose  from  the  mis 
taken  training  of  good  women. 

Ten  years  ago  this  Patristic  ideal  still 
had  a  strong  hold  upon  the  race,  but  the 
long  centuries  of  study  of  the  Latin  and 
Greek  literatures  in  the  schools  finally, 
almost  suddenly,  bore  fruit.  We  had 
through  our  school  boys  and  girls  imbibed 
the  spirit  of  the  two  European  races  whom 
the  Semitic  influences  had  never  domi 
nated.  One  wonders  that  some  foolish  so- 
called  progressives  should  now  be  wishing 
to  drop  those  literatures  from  the  curricu 
lum  of  students,  though  perhaps  their  work 
94 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

is  done.  At  all  events  we  hear  very  little 
now  of  this  talk  of  the  inferiority  of  women. 
When  the  miracles  of  male  achievement 
are  pointed  to  to-day,  women  know  enough 
to  say  proudly,  "Did  man  make  this? 
Well,  I  made  man";  and  is  content. 

MAY  4.     SEVILLE. 

What  a  people  are  these,  —  these  Span 
iards!  This  afternoon  —  Sunday  —  I  saw 
my  first  bull-fight.  One  need  The 
never  wonder  again  at  the  Roman  Beauty  of 
Arena  and  its  horrors.  It  is  as  Cruelty- 
incredible  that  human  beings  can  sit  through 
such  spectacles  as  that  women  could  have 
reversed  their  thumbs  when  a  staggering, 
bloody  barbarian  turned  up  a  glazed  eye 
to  seek  mercy.  .  .  .  And  this,  after  two 
thousand  years  of  Catholicism,  of  Chris 
tianity! 

These  Spaniards  say  —  staring  stupidly 
at  your  horror  —  "Mas,  no  es  Cristianos. 
They  are  only  animals."  Animals!  —  and 
yet  Christians  dare  talk  of  divine  mercy; 
of  their  faith  having  softened  hearts,  and 
sweetened  human  nature.  Civilization  has 
done  so,  in  truth,  but  where  this  faith  reigns 

95 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

most  arbitrarily  such  an  atrocious  spectacle 
is  permissible;  goes  undenounced  of  its 
priests. 

It  is  not  the  baser  sort  alone  who  love 
this  cowardly  butchery.  In  the  same  box 
with  ourselves  sat  a  woman  and  her  two 
daughters,  evidently  members  of  the  upper 
classes.  The  arena  below  was  crowded 
with  the  people  —  women  in  sulphur-col 
oured  shawls,  embroidered  with  sharp  blues 
and  scarlets  —  men  of  all  classes  —  dan 
dies  and  workmen  cheek  by  jowl --but 
the  rows  of  boxes  above  held  the  women 
and  children  of  the  well-to-do,  even  the 
aristocracy.  The  Royal  family  itself  pat 
ronizes  the  arena. 

The  women,  whose  faces  I  watched  in 
stead  of  the  shambles  after  the  fight  began, 
grew  devilish,  a  hard  smile  drew  their  lips 
back  over  their  teeth;  their  eyes  glittered; 
a  look  of  lust  strained  the  lines  about  the 
nose.  They  forced  the  children  —  some 
of  whom  cried,  and  shrank  from  the  horrid 
sight  —  to  turn  and  see  the  blood  and  the 
struggle. 

I  believe  the  secret  charm  of  this  gory 
game  to  many  is  the  prick  that  the  sight  of 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

blood  gives  to  the  senses.  The  history 
of  war  is  full  of  evidence  of  this  fact  —  that 
the  sight  of  horrors  spurs  the  passions.  It 
was  curious  to  think  that  many  of  the  people 
there  owed  their  existence  to  just  such  a 
stimulus  as  this.  Cruelty  thus  lies,  heredi 
tarily,  at  the  very  roots  of  their  being;  in 
tensified  in  each  generation. 

For  the  same  reason,  I  suppose,  that  so 
much  of  my  life  seems  to  me  a  glamour 
of  tangled  shadows,  elusive  and  shifting, 
with  no  definite  line  between  the  real  and 
the  unreal,  between  to-day  and  all  the 
yesterdays  —  for  that  reason  the  arena's 
gaunt,  windowless  walls  and  passages 
seemed  startlingly  familiar.  Equally  fa 
miliar  the  yellow,  sand-strewn  circle;  the 
glaring  blue  sky  above  the  bright-coloured 
maelstrom  of  faces;  the  whirl  of  fans  all 
around  the  ring  —  as  of  a  circle  of  innu 
merable  dancing  butterflies;  the  cries  of  the 
venders;  the  clang  of  the  trumpets;  the 
glitter  of  the  tinsel  and  gew-gaws;  the  bold 
rush  of  the  black  bull;  the  quick  spatter  of 
the  applauding  hands.  .  .  . 

No  animal  was  ever  more  beautiful  than 
this  splendid  beast,  the  perfect  focus  of 

97 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

power  and  rage.  He  knew  that  he  was 
facing  murder.  There  was  desperation  in 
his  glance  from  the  first  moment,  but  he 
simply  didn't  know  the  meaning  of  cow 
ardice.  He  knew  there  was  no  use  in  any 
thing  he  might  do;  that  his  courage,  and 
beauty,  and  long  battle  for  life,  would  not 
stir  to  pity  one  of  those  hard,  handsome 
faces  with  their  dark  shaven  jaws  and  tight 
lips,  but  he  struck  at  his  foes  with  all  his 
force  in  mere  sullen  fury.  He  tore  open 
the  bellies  of  the  shivering,  sweating,  blind 
folded  horses,  who  staggered  a  few  steps 
trailing  their  entrails  in  the  sand  and  then 
crumpled  helplessly;  he  caught  a  man  in 
the  breast  and  tossed  him  over  the  barrier 
with  blood  spurting  from  the  hole  his  horn 
had  made.  He  himself  leaped  the  fence 
once,  as  agile  as  a  deer,  and  brushed  the 
crowd  back  like  flies,  but  he  did  it  all  with 
out  a  sign  of  hope,  and  never  made  a  sound. 
Pricked,  goaded,  red  streams  running 
over  his  satin  skin  and  searing  his  eyes, 
stumbling  wildly  here  and  there,  his  sides 
sunk  in,  his  muzzle  dragging  in  the  dust, 
dumb,  dull  fury  in  his  heart  at  his  useless 
torture,  spurred  to  new  effort  by  explosive 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

darts  that  tore  his  flesh  into  gory,  pendu 
lous  ribbons,  hissed  by  the  women,  he  fell 
at  last  upon  his  knees  in  blind  helpless 
ness.  .  .  . 

How  it  ended  I  don't  know.  A  rage  of 
horror  squeezed  my  heart  till  the  tears 
spurted  from  my  lids.  It  seemed  necessary 
to  seize  some  weapon  and  slaughter  indis 
criminately  the  men  who  were  murdering 
this  poor  brute  for  mere  amusement,  the 
women  who  were  hissing  his  death  throes. 
In  such  horrid  sequence  does  cruelty 
engender  cruelty. 

The  people  about  me  regarded  my  emo 
tion  and  retreat  with  surprise  and  con 
tempt.  Some  such  sensation,  I  suppose, 
as  would  have  been  felt  by  a  Roman  who 
should  have  seen  me  shed  tears  when  the 
big  cats  of  the  arena  crushed  the  bones  of 
some  brave  young  barbarian  or  Christian. 
These  creatures  were  so  far  beneath  him 
in  the  scale  of  existence  that  he  could  not 
conceive  of  any  poignancy  of  suffering  or 
emotion  in  such  a  mere  animal.  Was  not 
one  hair  of  a  Roman  worth  many  sparrows 
—  or  Christians  ? 

The  Jewish  democrat  tried  to  teach  the 

99 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

world  to  recognize  the  value  of  the  indi 
vidual,  the  sanctity  of  each  human  life  — 
when  will  a  Christ  of  the  beasts  arise  ? 

MAY  5. 

This  old  world,  with  its  horrors  and  its 
beauties,  how  tame  it  makes  our  smug, 
comfortable  America  appear!  .  .  .  Yester 
day  I  wished  to  make  a  hecatomb  of  the 
Spaniards.  To-day  I  forgive  them  every 
thing  because  of  the  Sevillian  dancers. 
My  lusts  are  all  of  the  eye.  I  can  quite 
conceive  Herod  tossing  the  Baptist's  head 
to  the  supple  Salome  in  an  ecstasy  of 
approval.  Dancing,  when  it  is  good,  is 
more  beautiful  to  me  than  music.  And 
this  dancing  is  very  good. 

The  muscular  gymnastics,  which  modern 
Italy  has  imposed  upon  the  world  as  dan 
cing,  are  as  dissimilar  from  the  real  thing 
as  the  fiorituri  singing  is  from  the  old  bel 
canto.  The  Spaniards  make  dancing  —  as 
all  arts  should  be  made  —  the  poetical  ex 
pression  of  life  and  love.  Such  ardour  and 
seduction,  such  abandon  to  the  joy  of  living, 
such  rage  and  daring,  such  delicate  coquetry 
and  wild  wooing!  .  .  .  there  is  nothing  like 
100 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

it  out   of  Spain,  the   country  where  they 
torture  helpless  animals  for  sport. 

Is  there,  perhaps,  some  secret  tie  between 
cruelty  and  beauty;  between  crime  and 
art  ?  It  is  certain  that  religious  reformers 
have  always  thought  so,  and  have  acted 
with  logical  fury.  In  our  peaceful,  decent 
country,  beauty,  except  such  as  Nature  her 
self  affords,  is  rare.  A  race  that  loves  its 
neighbour  as  itself  seems  incapable  of  creat 
ing  an  art.  The  good  Swiss  have  done 
nothing  for  the  mind's  delight:  the  virtuous 
Spartans  could  not  even  appreciate  love 
liness  when  they  saw  it.  Nearly  all  the 
great  periods  of  flowering  in  art  come  after 
the  roots  of  a  nation  have  been  watered  in 
blood,  after  some  frightful  crise  of  suffering. 
It  would  seem  as  if  bringing  forth  must  be 
always  accompanied  by  birth-pangs. 

MAY  7.     GRANADA. 

H said  that  the  greatness  of  a  people 

depended   upon    its    trees.     This    sounded 
rather  cryptic,  and  I  entreated  him  The  Duke 
to    be    more    diffuse.     We    were  ofWeiiing- 
walking  home  from  that  enchanted  ton's 
garden,  owned  by  the  Pallavicini, 
101 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

which  rewarded  the  Moor  for  betraying 
his  city.  The  May  moon  was  shining  on 
the  white  mountain  tops,  and  the  jargoning 
of  the  snow-brooks  sounded  about  our  feet. 
The  air  smelled  of  orange  flowers  and  roses, 
and  the  nightingales  were  shouting  in  the 
gloom  of  those  one  hundred  thousand  trees 
planted  by  the  Duke  of  Wellington. 

:'This   Spanish   peninsula,"  H said, 

"under  the  rule  of  the  Moors,  supported 
thirty  millions  of  people  in  comfort.  The 
Christian  kings  allowed  the  upland  forests 
to  be  ruthlessly  sacrificed,  and  now  look  at 
Spain." 

"One  swallow"  —  I  quoted.     "Will  one 
instance  support  a  theory?" 

"No;  but  I  could  give  you  a  dozen. 
Carlyle  and  the  rest  of  the  historians  have 
talked  the  fearfulest  rot  about  France  under 
the  monarchy  which  preserved  her  forests. 
Of  course,  every  one  has  weakly  credited 
the  stories  of  oppression  and  starvation  in 
aristocratic  France.  And  yet  the  sons  of 
these  peasants,  who  were  pitifully  pictured 
snatching  at  leaves  of  those  forests  for  food, 
overran  Europe.  I  don't  believe  that  chil 
dren  bred  in  starvation  could  ever  have 
102 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

had  the  vitality  to  be  conquerors.  At  all 
events,  when  the  land  was  divided  and  the 
forests  delivered  to  spoliation,  the  popula 
tion  of  France  began  to  decline.  Possibly 
the  modern  effort  at  reforesting  the  country 
may  arrest  that  decline." 

"Just  listen  to  the  noise  of  those  nightin 
gales,"  I  said.  "Do  you  suppose  we  shall 
be  able  to  sleep  ?" 

MAY  15.     NAPLES. 

The  Pompeian  bronze,  which  the  guide 
books  and  catalogues  name  The  Boy  with 
the  Goose,  is  quite  wrongly  named.  The  Boy 
The  lad  carries  a  wine-skin.  The  with;the 
rude,  swollen  outlines  of  the  pig 
are  clear,  and  the  attitude  of  the  boy  one  may 
see  any  water-seller  in  Tangier  assume 
when  called  upon  for  a  drink  —  the  arm 
raised,  the  body  tilted  back  upon  the  hip 
to  elevate  the  lip  of  the  skin,  so  that  no 
more  water  may  flow  than  is  needed.  The 
whole,  a  delicious  bit  of  genre,  smiling  and 
vivid  after  two  thousand  years. 

There  is  a  curious  vitality  of  a  trifling 
custom  discoverable  here  in  the  Pompeian 
museum.     The  great  bronze  horses  of  Balbo 
103 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

have  forelocks  wrapped  and  twisted  in  ex 
actly  the  same  fashion  that  still  prevails 
all  along  this  Neapolitan  shore.  The  breed 
has  changed  utterly;  bone  and  structure 
have  altered  and  shrunk,  but  the  vetturino, 
who  drives  through  the  streets  of  Naples 
to-day,  twists  up  that  bit  of  hair  in  exactly 
the  same  manner  as  did  the  coachman  of 
Glaucus  or  Balbo. 

MAY  30.     ROME. 

How  beautiful  upon  the  mountains  are 
the  feet  of  —  Apollo !  .  .  .  I  have  to-day, 
for  the  first  time,  seen  a  god. 

He  stands  in  the  Vatican,  and  follows, 
with  upthrown  head  and  far-seeing  eye, 
A  God  the  flight  of  the  golden  arrow  that 
indeed.  slays  the  serpent  of  the  miasmatic 
marsh.  One  feels  a  sad  tenderness  for 
the  poor  bleeding  deity,  who  hangs  dead 
and  helpless  from  a  thousand  crucifixes 
here  in  Rome,  but  to-day,  for  the  first 
time  in  my  life,  I  felt  the  impulse  to  fall 
on  my  knees  and  worship.  Here  is  at  last, 
and  indeed  a  god,  whose  fine  feet  dis 
dain  the  earth,  whose  proud  youth  never 
knew  suffering  or  defeat.  Here  is  the 
104 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

embodiment  of  the  ideal  of  the  European  - 
beauty,  health,  power.  How  he  must  smile 
to  stand  here,  merely  a  statue,  in  the  place 
where  the  Christian  reigns,  amid  luxury 
and  pomp,  in  the  name  of  the  sorrowful 
Hebrew  democrat  who  had  not  a  place  to 
lay  his  head.  Apollo's  ideal,  his  worship, 
still  remains  dominant,  though  they  call 
his  religion  by  another  name.  The  Euro 
pean  remains,  and  always  will  remain,  a 
pagan;  none  more  pagan  than  the  popes 
with  their  lust  for  temporal  power. 

Only  here  in  Rome  is  it  possible  to  realize 
the  long  struggle  for  supremacy  between 
the  European  and  Semitic  ideas;  for  here 
is  gathered  the  bulk  of  the  relics  of  Greece 
-  mother  and  nurse  of  our  race  —  who 
early  broke  the  bonds  of  Asiatic  thought 
and  sought  her  own  development,  material 
rather  than  spiritual  (if  one  accepts  the 
theory  that  spirit  and  matter  are  divisible), 
sensuous  rather  than  mystical,  concerned 
more  with  the  well-being  of  the  body  and 
the  freedom  and  vigour  of  the  mind  than 
with  the  condition  of  the  soul.  She  who 
threw  herself  with  passion  into  the  arms  of 
Nature,  and  worshipped  only  the  subli- 
105 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

mated  human  characteristics  and  visible 
natural  forces  deified  into  exquisite  personi 
fications.  She  who  exalted  the  beauty  and 
health  of  the  body  into  a  cult,  strove  after 
the  demonstrable  truths  of  science,  and 
loved  man  as  he  was  —  humorously  loved 
him  with  all  his  faults  and  limitations, 
rather  than  an  impossible  ideal  of  him. 

Here  in  Rome  one  finds  all  the  records 
of  the  next  great  development  of  the  Euro 
pean  Erd-geist  —  the  growth  of  its  genius 
in  military,  social,  and  political  organiza 
tion.  Still,  as  in  Greece,  clinging  to  the 
aristocratic  ideal;  to  the  rule  of  the  strong 
and  gifted.  The  fruit  did  not  exist  for  the 
benefit  of  the  vine ;  the  vine  existed  to  pro 
duce,  to  nourish,  to  minister  to  the  perfect 
culmination  of  its  species  in  the  fruit, 
which  drank  its  sap  as  of  right.  Here 
again  the  European  followed  Nature,  that 
Arch-Aristocrat  who  destroys  multitudes 
to  produce  a  few  perfect  specimens  — 
whose  right  is  always  might. 

The  Asian  conquests  brought  again  in 
roads  of  Asian  thought;  more  particularly 
the  thought  of  that  small  tribe,  the  quintes 
sential  of  Semitism,  which  was  ever  engaged 
1 06 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

in  revolt  against  nature,  and  maintaining 
democratic  convictions  in  the  teeth  of  all 
experience.  Impatient  of  rulers,  but  sub 
missive  to  those  who  scourged  the  impulses 
of  their  appetites.  Scornful  of  kings,  and 
turning  from  beauty  and  genius  to  exalt  the 
insane  and  insect-ridden  fakir  with  knotted 
unshorn  locks  who  muttered  vague  proph 
ecies.  Struggling  always  to  escape  from 
the  grip  of  the  inevitable  cruelties  of  natural 
forces  by  opposing  to  them  bloody  sacrifices 
and  cruel  self-restraints  —  flowering  at  last 
into  that  supreme  incarnation  of  the  Semi 
tic  mind  called  Jesus  Christ,  who  wrested 
from  asceticism  a  dream  of  a  panacea  for 
the  brutalities  of  the  laws  of  life.  The 
misshapen  and  undeveloped  fruit  of  the 
tree  of  existence,  the  windfalls  —  always 
a  vast  majority  —  received  with  ecstasy 
this  new  gospel,  absurd  but  fascinating, 
which  denied  actualities  and  promised  im 
possibilities.  The  feeble  majority  clutched 
at  a  power  denied  them  by  nature,  and 
only  by  outwardly  accepting  the  new  tenets 
were  the  strong  few  able  to  maintain  their 
old  dominance. 

Nietsche's   "blond    savage"    pouring   in 
107 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

from  the  north  found  Rome  disintegrated 
by  this  Asian  influence,  and  unable  to 
discern  that  the  new  faith  was  not  an  in 
tegral  part  of  the  civilization  whose  splen 
dour  dazzled  him,  accepted  this  theory  of 
life  as  part  of  the  lesson  he  set  himself 
humbly  to  learn  at  the  feet  of  Italy. 

Hence  followed  that  blind  welter  of 
medievalism;  the  material  genius  of  the 
European  race  struggling  in  the  bonds  of 
a  creed  entirely  foreign  and  unsympathetic. 
The  strong  still  ruled,  as  always,  but 
ruled  by  new  formulae,  and  moistened  with 
blood  and  kneaded  by  swords  the  hard 
paste  of  the  European  Aryan  was  leavened 
by  Semitism.  Not  willingly;  never  en 
tirely.  A  thousand  years  after  Rome's 
acceptance  of  the  new  cult  the  re-discovery 
of  the  old  art  and  philosophy  of  Greece 
intoxicated  Europe  with  joy.  Here  was 
something  of  her  own  —  natural  to  her  — 
sympathetic.  The  Renaissance  became  an 
ecstasy  of  negation  of  the  heavy  yoke  under 
which  her  neck  had  so  long  been  bowed. 
Learning  again  was  glorious.  The  phi 
losopher  dared  assert  his  superiority  to 
dirty,  ignorant  scions  of  the  gutter,  who 
1 08 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

had  claimed  equality  with  sovereigns  by 
reason  of  not  eating  three  meals  a  day, 
and  because  of  the  virtue  which  lay  in  the 
frequent  recitation  of  gibberish.  Art  aban 
doned  its  endless  repetitions  of  a  single 
theme,  and  essayed  in  faltering  delight  to 
rival  the  glorious  fragments  of  those  who 
had  made  nature  their  model  and  had 
joyed  to  picture  life  in  all  its  rich  grace 
and  charm.  The  Western  world  stood 
once  more  upon  its  feet  and  burst  into  a 
rapture  of  creation.  It  laughed  to  scorn 
the  narrow  commands  of  Semitic  asceti 
cism  against  the  graven  image.  Once  more 
it  allowed  the  beauty  of  visible  nature  to 
pour  through  its  veins  in  a  rich,  fecundating 
flood. 

But  after  all,  the  leaven  had  reached 
every  part,  and  had  tinctured  it  past  any 
possible  casting  out.  Never  could  the  Eu 
ropean  be  free  of  Asian  influence.  The 
pendulum  has  swung  back  and  forth  ever 
since  —  ever  moving  a  little  higher  toward 
the  side  of  the  natural,  material  develop 
ment  of  the  race,  but  ever  checked  and 
brought  back  to  the  old  Jewish  revolt 
against  nature.  To-day  the  influence  of 
109 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

Asia  shows  itself  in  the  absurdities  of  de 
mocracy,  the  phantasies  of  socialism. 

.  .  .  One  of  the  most  curious  phases  of 
the  whole  question  is  that  the  Jew  —  dis 
persed  throughout  the  Western  world  — 
has  entirely  succumbed  to  the  very  ideas 
which  he  overthrew.  He  is  the  artist,  the 
materialist  of  our  times! 

JUNE  i. 

The  portrait  busts  of  the  Romans  were 
their  highest  achievements  in  art.  One 
A  sees  literally  thousands  of  them  in 

Question  Italy,  and  their  painstaking  accu- 

Skuiis.     mcy  jg  Okv}ous      What  is  to  me 

most  interesting  is  that  the  sculptured 
Roman  head  and  face  might  easily  be 
taken  for  a  portrait  of  the  English  people 
of  to-day.  In  any  congregation  of  the 
English  governing  classes  will  be  found 
constantly  reproduced  the  long,  narrow 
skull,  the  bold  aquiline  nose,  the  stern  lips 
and  chin,  and  that  clean  fleshless  outline 
of  the  Roman  —  resembling  the  keen  model 
ling  of  the  head  of  the  high-bred  horse  — 
repeated  so  frequently  in  marble  and  por 
phyry  in  all  these  museums, 
no 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

Can  it  be  that  Empire  reproduces  the 
type  ?  Yet  ethnologists  trust  more  to  the 
shape  of  the  skull  in  the  study  of  race  affin 
ities  than  to  any  other  proof.  The  modern 
Italian  skull  is  the  extreme  opposite  in 
type;  is  short  and  broad;  so  indeed  is  the 
skull  of  all  the  continental  races  of  Europe. 
I  know  that  the  skull  measurements  are 
not  supposed  to  give  this  result,  but  to  the 
eye  the  English  alone  seem  to  possess  this 
long,  narrow  skull. 

Amusing  also  is  it  to  remark  that  the 
Roman  women  were  not  handsome.  In 
both  races  the  resemblance  between  the 
sexes  is  too  strong.  The  fine,  bony,  equine 
type,  so  admirable  in  the  male  Roman 
and  Englishman,  becomes  hardness  in  the 
women,  who  lack  seduction  and  charm. 
Also  curious  to  note,  there  is  the  same  proud 
grace  of  costume  and  coiffure  in  the  men; 
the  same  ugliness  and  lack  of  taste  in  the 
arrangement  of  the  hair  and  dress  of  the 
women  of  the  two  races. 

LONDON.     JUNE  30. 

H and  I  dined  last  night  with  Mary 

L at  the  Carleton,  and    H asked 

in 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

her,  in  his  large  generic  fashion,  what  every- 
The  body  had  been  doing  at  home  dur- 

Modern          •         our  absence. 
Woman  ° 

and  Oh,   having   their   appendices 


Marriage.  cut  out  an(j  getting  divorced!"  she 
said  flippantly,  and  H  -  laughed  out 
rageously,  so  that  people  turned  and  stared. 
It  was  probably  the  lobster  we  ate  that  made 
me  think  her  remark  more  pathetic  than 
funny  while  I  turned  it  over  in  my  mind 
all  the  long  hours  I  lay  awake. 

Howells  has  said,  with  only  humorous 
apology,  that  his  sex,  after  nineteen  hun 
dred  years,  is  but  imperfectly  monogamous. 
and  yet  our  modern  women  are  beginning 
to  treat  marriage  so  disrespectfully,  and 
change  partners  for  life  as  light-heartedly 
as  if  the  engagement  was  as  unimportant 
as  an  engagement  for  a  dance! 

That  even  this  imperfect  measure  of 
self-denial  and  fidelity  has  been  arrived 
at  by  men  seems  to  me  to  be  almost  solely 
due  to  the  women  of  the  past.  I  know 
the  Church  claims  —  in  her  usual  arrogant 
way  —  that  she  should  have  the  credit  of 
it,  but  Lecky  says  in  his  "European 
Morals": 

112 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

;<The  first  consequence  of  the  promi 
nence  of  asceticism  was  a  profound  dis 
credit  thrown  upon  the  domestic  virtues. 
The  extent  to  which  this  discredit  was 
carried,  the  intense  hardness  of  heart  and 
ingratitude  manifested  by  the  saints  to 
wards  those  who  were  bound  to  tbem  by 
the  closest  of  earthly  ties,  is  known  to  few 
who  have  not  studied  the  original  literature 
on  the  subject.  These  things  are  commonly 
thrown  into  the  shade  by  sentimentalists 
who  delight  in  idealizing  the  devotees  of 
the  past.  To  break  by  his  ingratitude  the 
heart  of  the  mother  who  had  borne  him, 
to  persuade  the  wife  who  adored  him  that 
it  was  her  duty  to  separate  from  him  for 
ever,  to  abandon  his  children,  uncared  for 
and  beggars,  to  the  mercies  of  the  world, 
was  regarded  by  the  true  hermit  as  the 
most  acceptable  offering  he  could  make  to 
his  God." 

The  root  of  family  life  is  not  mutual 
affection  between  man  and  woman,  because 
that,  alas! — whether  it  be  founded  on 
physical  attraction  or  mental  affinity  —  is 
subject  to  change.  Age  withers,  and  cus 
tom  stales  it:  circumstance  blights  it,  a 
"3 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

diversity  of  spiritual  growth  rends  it  apart, 
and  no  man  or  woman  can  say  with  cer 
tainty  that  it  will  endure  for  a  lifetime. 
But  the  fluctuations  to  which  wedded  love 
is  subject  are  unknown  to  the  self-abne 
gating  instinct  of  parenthood.  Mutual  af 
fection  lor  the  offspring  will  hold  together 
the  most  opposite  natures;  it  will  rivet  for 
all  existence  two  lives  that  must  otherwise 
inevitably  spring  asunder  by  instinctive 
repulsion. 

Love  of  offspring  is  in  man  a  cultivated 
emotion;  in  woman  an  instinct.  There  are 
women  lacking  the  instinct  as  there  are 
calves  born  with  two  heads,  but  for  pur 
poses  of  generalization  these  exceptions 
may  be  ignored.  In  many  of  the  lower 
orders  of  life  the  female  is  obliged  to  protect 
the  young  from  the  enmity  of  the  male 
parent.  The  alligator  finds  no  meal  so 
refreshing  as  a  light  lunch  off  his  newly 
hatched  children,  and  the  male  swine  shares 
this  epicurean  taste  for  tender  offspring. 
The  stallion  is  a  dangerous  companion  for 
the  mare  with  colt  at  foot,  though  the  colt 
be  of  his  own  get,  and  many  species  of  male 
appear  to  experience  a  similar  jealousy  of 
114 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

the  young  while  absorbing  the  attentions 
of  the  female.  Speaking  generally  of  the 
animal  world,  the  young  are  obliged  to  look 
to  the  mother  entirely  for  food  and  care 
during  the  period  of  helplessness.  With 
savage  man  of  the  lower  grade  the  paternal 
instinct  is  still  faint  and  rudimentary,  and 
even  where  the  woman  has,  through  long 
ages  of  endeavour,  succeeded  in  cultivating 
in  the  heart  of  the  other  parent  a  fair  imita 
tion  of  her  own  affection,  this  affection, 
being  a  cultivated  emotion  and  not  an 
instinct,  frequently  breaks  down  under  stress 
of  misbehaviour  or  frowardness  on  the  part 
of  the  child. 

To  this  end,  then,  —  that  end  "toward 
which  the  whole  creation  moves," — to 
effect  this  result  of  an  equal  care  and  affec 
tion  for  the  offspring,  all  the  energies  of 
women  have  been  bent  for  ages. 

She  has  fought  polygamy  with  incessant 
hatred;  not  only  for  its  injury  to  herself, 
but  its  constant  menace  to  her  children. 
The  secret  strings  of  the  woman's  heart 
are  wrapped  about  the  fruit  of  her  own 
flesh,  but  the  desire  of  the  man  is  to  the 
woman,  and  this  desire  she  has  used  as  a 
IJ5 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

lever  to  work  her  will  —  not  consciously, 
perhaps,  not  with  reasoned  forethought, 
but  with  the  iron  tenacity  of  blind  instinct. 
Reasoned  will  may  be  baffled  or  deflected, 
but  water  can  by  no  means  be  induced  to 
run  up  hill;  and  so  while  woman  has  been 
apparently  as  fluidly  yielding  as  water  — 
to  be  led  here  and  driven  there  according 
to  the  will  of  her  master — she  has  stuck  to 
her  own  ends  with  a  silent  persistency  that 
has  always  tired  out  opposition  at  last. 
She  has,  like  Charity,  suffered  all  things, 
endured  all  things;  she  has  been  all  things 
to  all  men.  She  has  yielded  all  outward 
show  of  authority;  she  has  submitted  to 
be  scoffed  at  as  an  inferior  creation,  to  be 
sneered  at  for  feebleness  and  shallow-mind- 
edness,  to  be  laughed  at  for  chattering  incon 
sequence,  and  to  be  regarded  as  a  toy  and 
trifle  to  amuse  man's  leisure  hours,  or  as  a 
dull  drudge  for  his  convenience,  for  ends 
are  not  achieved  by  talking  about  them. 
All  the  ages  of  masculine  discussion  of  the 
Eternal  Feminine  show  no  reply  from  her, 
but  to-day  the  world  is  a  woman's  world. 
Civilization  has,  under  the  unrelaxing 
pressure  of  endless  generations  of  her  per- 
116 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

sistent  will,  been  bent  to  her  ends.  Polyg 
amy  is  routed,  and  the  errant  fancy  of 
the  male  tamed  to  yield  itself  to  a  single 
yoke.  She  has,  "with  bare  and  bloody  feet, 
climbed  the  steep  road  of  wide  empire," 
but  to-day  she  stands  at  the  top  —  mistress 
of  the  world.  Man,  with  his  talents,  his 
strength,  and  his  selfishness,  has  been 
tamed  to  her  hand.  The  sensual,  domi 
nant  brute  with  whom  she  began  what 
Max  Nordau  calls  "the  toilsome,  slow 
ascent  of  the  long  curve  leading  up  to 
civilization,"  stands  beside  her  to-day,  hat 
in  hand,  her  lover  —  husband ;  tender,  faith 
ful,  courteous,  and  indulgent. 

This  is  the  conquest  that  has  been  made, 
the  crown  and  throne  achieved  by  the  silent, 
uneducated  woman  of  the  past. 

Monogamous  marriage  is  the  foundation 
stone  on  which  has  been  built  her  power; 
a  power  which,  while  it  has  enured  to  her 
own  benefit,  has  not  been  exercised  for 
selfish  ends.  She  has  raised  the  relation 
between  man  and  herself  from  a  mere  con 
tract  of  sensuality  or  convenience  to  a 
spiritual  sacrament  within  whose  limits  the 
purest  and  most  exalted  of  human  emotions 
117 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

find  play.  For  the  coarse  indulgence  and 
bitter  enmities  of  polygamy  has  been  sub 
stituted  the  happiest  of  bonds,  in  which 
the  higher  natures  find  room  for  the  subtlest 
and  completest  felicities,  and  within  which 
the  man,  the  woman,  and  the  child  form  a 
holy  trinity  of  mutual  love  and  well-being. 

To  this  jewel,  so  hardly  won,  so  long 
toiled  for,  it  would  be  natural  to  suppose 
that  woman  would  cling  with  all  the  force 
of  her  nature;  all  the  more  as  education 
broadened  her  capacity  for  reflection  and 
deepened  her  consciousness  of  self.  On 
the  contrary,  the  little  learning  she  has  so 
far  acquired  seems,  as  usual,  a  dangerous 
thing,  and  with  the  development  of  self- 
consciousness  the  keen,  unerring  flair  of  her 
instinct  for  the  one  thing  needful  has  been 
blunted  and  enfeebled.  It  is  not  neces 
sary  to  give  undue  weight  to  the  blatant 
and  empty-headed  crew  who  announce 
marriage  to  be  a  failure,  and  that  women 
are  tired  of,  and  will  no  longer  submit  to, 
child-bearing.  There  are  crowing  hens  in 
all  barnyards,  and  their  loud  antics  never 
materially  affect  the  price  of  eggs. 

But  that  the  women  of  our  own  time 
118 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

should  treat  marriage  —  that  hard-won, 
dear-bought  triumph  —  with  such  profligate 
recklessness  amazes  me.  We  are  making 
ducks  and  drakes  of  the  treasure  heaped 
up  for  us  by  our  mothers.  How  long  will 
this  imperfectly  monogamous  animal  re 
spect  an  institution  which  is  all  for  our 
benefit,  if  we  ourselves  regard  it  so  lightly  ? 

The  modern  woman  is  so  spoiled,  so 
indulged,  that  she  does  not  realize  how 
much  a  man  gives  and  how  little  he  gets 
in  marriage.  He  gives  a  half,  sometimes 
—  indeed  often  —  more  than  half,  of  his 
earnings,  his  name  and  its  honour,  his  pro 
tection  and  defence  of  her  person,  and  a 
lifelong  responsibility  for  her  and  her  chil 
dren,  and  he  gets  —  what  ?  Her  person, 
and  it  is  to  be  hoped  her  affection.  The 
woman  of  the  present  day  lays  too  much 
stress  upon  this  gift  of  her  person.  She 
appears  to  think  that  this  gift  alone  renders 
man  her  eternal  debtor.  To  speak  a  little 
brutally,  he  knows  that  he  can  easily  buy 
a  like  gift  elsewhere  and  for  a  less  price. 

I  remember  that  last  year  Alice  com 
plained  of  some  of  Ned's  small  foibles. 

"Oh,  you  must  be  patient  with  him," 
119 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

I  said.  '' Think  how  much  he  gives  you; 
home,  name,  support,  protection  —  every 
thing.  He  works  hard  for  you  every  day. 
You  are  under  tremendous  obligations  to 
him." 

"Well,  if  you  put  it  that  way  — "  she 
answered  resentfully,  "but  don't  I  give 
him  love  and  affection  in  return  ? " 

"Yes,"  I  countered  triumphantly,  "but 
he  gives  you  equal  love  and  all  these  other 
things  beside.  It  seems  to  me  there's  no 
question  who  gives  most." 

She  opened  her  eyes  rather  wide  and 
looked  thoughtful. 

JULY  17. 

It  being  the  "silly  season"  a  controversy 
is  raging  in  the  daily  papers  as  to  the  ideal 
The  ideal  wife  and  the  ideal  husband,  and 
Husband.  much  correspondence  is  occurring 
under  various  anonyms. 

Alas!  —  the  only  ideal  husband  who  ever 
lived  married  the  only  ideal  wife  ever  born. 
They  were  cut  off  in  the  flower  of  their 
youth  —  some  time  during  the  first  years 
of  the  Pliocene  Period  —  and  minute  fossil 
fragments  of  their  bones  are  now  worn  as 
1 20 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

relics  by  pious  celibates,  and  are  said  to 
have  worked  miracles. 

Of  so  potent  an  essence  are  their  mere 
memories,  it  is  said  his  knightly  ghost  haunts 
the  rosy  chambers  of  all  maiden  dreams, 
and  men  seeking  Her  like  find  all  other 
women  less  desirable  because  of  her  fabled 
virtues. 

I  suppose  all  girls  see  him  more  or  less 
in  their  lovers.  Imagination  deceptively 
moulds  their  features  to  a  similacrum  of 
that  noble  legendary  person,  until  the  fierce 
light  which  beats  upon  the  married  reveals 
the  unprepossessing  traits  of  plain  every 
day  humanity.  Yet  every  woman  begins 
her  sentimental  life  with  hopes  unabated 
by  the  depressing  failures  of  others. 

A  most  quaint  and  charming  creature  — 
this  ideal  who  haunts  the  dreams  of  maiden 
hood!  Compounded  all  of  purity  and  pas 
sion,  of  chivalry  and  grace,  of  vigour  and 
beauty.  He  can  in  moments  of  excitement 
tie  the  poker  into  love-knots,  and  has  a 
hand  of  velvet  with  which  to  touch  the 
dreamer's  curls.  A  ruler  of  men,  he  is  to 
be  led  by  a  single  golden  hair.  Capable 
of  volcanic  passion,  which  renders  him  in- 
121 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

different  to  meals  or  to  fatigue,  he  can  yet 
be  moved  to  these  ecstasies  by  but  a  single 
member  of  the  sex,  and  despite  snubs  or 
coquetry  can  live  for  decades  upon  the  mere 
hope  of  her  favour.  He  excels  in  all  manly 
prowess  and  diversions,  and  yet  is  never 
guilty  of  causing  the  loved  one  to  mourn 
his  absence  during  a  golf  widowhood.  He 
adores  poetry  and  is  superior  to  all  vulgar 
commercialism,  and  yet  manages  —  in.  that 
simple  fashion  known  only  to  ideals  —  to 
accumulate  a  fortune  and  be  generous  in 
the  matter  of  diamonds.  He  combines  in 
one  stalwart  person  all  the  virtues  of  Gala 
had,  Arthur,  Launcelot,  and  Baron  Roths 
child. 

Later  on  the  wife  develops  an  ideal  less 
magnificently  ornamental  than  this  choice 
collection  of  bric-a-brac  virtues.  The 
married  idol  must  be  thoroughly  domesti 
cated:  prepared  to  throw  himself  with 
enthusiasm  into  the  study  of  croup  and 
measles;  is  deeply  versed  in  the  matter  of 
female  domestic  service,  and  yet  so  full 
of  tact  as  to  be  able  to  obliterate  himself 
at  moments  of  domestic  crisis.  Like  the 
ideal  servant,  he  must  be  never  in  the  way 
122 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

and  never  out  of  it.  He  must  be  uncritical 
of  failure,  yet  capable  of  enthusiasm  for 
success;  unselfish  as  a  saint,  yet  command 
ing  the  secret  of  worldly  achievement;  and 
above  all  he  must  be  hopelessly  blind  to 
the  virtues  and  charms  of  every  woman 
but  his  wife. 

Taste  as  to  details  may  differ  according 
to  temperament,  nationality,  and  social 
condition,  but,  broadly  speaking,  this  de 
lightful  person  with  his  eccentric  combi 
nation  of  qualities  figures  in  the  abstract 
affections  of  all  women. 

But  these  are  dreams;  diversions  of 
those  pleasant  moments  when  the  human 
moth  allows  itself,  with  futile  richness  of 
imagination,  to  consider  the  star  as  a  pos 
sible  companion,  and  it  seems  useless  to 
hope  that  such  a  person  will  ever  appear  in 
this  sinful  and  unworthy  world. 

Perhaps  from  time  to  time  a  man  who 
faintly  reflects  the  luminous  charms  of  this 
knightly  husband-saint  does  arise  to  cheer 
and  comfort  the  weaker  sex  and  keep  their 
hopes  and  ideals  alive,  but  the  "Mauds," 
and  "Charlottes,"  and  "Mrs.  S.  F.  J.s," 
who  have  been  extolling  his  attractions  in 
123 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

print,  seem  not  to  have  prayerfully  con 
sidered  whether  they  themselves  were  fit 
mates  for,  or  capable  of  satisfying  the  ideals 
of,  this  wholly  impossible  he.  There  is  far 
less  talk  about  the  ideal  wife  —  for  two 
reasons,  I  suppose.  One  is  that  men  have 
less  time  for  chattering  generalizations,  and 
the  other  —  alas!  —  is  that  men  are  far 
less  interested  in  women  than  are  women 
in  men. 

The  American  is  supposed  to  more 
nearly  approach  this  high  standard  than  the 
men  of  any  other  nationality,  but  that  typical 
American  husband  of  novels  has,  I  must 
confess,  always  seemed  to  me  a  paltry, 
bourgeois  creature,  with  the  soul  of  a  bank 
clerk,  a  neglected  mind,  and  with  a  low 
estimate  and  a  sort  of  amused  indulgence  of 
women  as  pretty,  fantastic,  inconsequent 
children  with  an  insane  greed  of  luxury. 

Of  course,  it  is  heresy  to  say  so,  but  my 
observation  leads  me  to  think  that  American 
women  hold  a  general  position  far  inferior 
to  the  women  of  Europe.  The  American 
man  is  pre-eminently  generous  to  them  in 
material  things.  Often  while  he  slaves  and 
goes  shabby  himself  he  is  willing  to  meta- 
124 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

phorically  back  a  van  up  to  the  coal-hole 
and  fill  the  cellar  full  of  jewels,  but  he  denies 
to  his  women  that  whose  price  is  above 
rubies  —  his  own  society.  Why  is  Ameri 
can  society  made  up  of  women  ?  What  is 
the  cause  of  our  superfluity  of  women's 
clubs,  committees,  and  classes  ?  What  place 
has  the  middle-aged  or  elderly  woman  in 
America  except  as  the  mother  of  her 
daughters,  or  the  dispenser  of  her  husband's 
hospitalities  and  charities  ? 

After  the  period  of  sex-attraction  has 
passed  women  have  no  power  in  America. 
Who  ever  sees  here,  as  is  so  often  seen  in 
Europe,  an  elderly  woman's  drawing-rooms 
filled  with  politicians,  financiers,  artists, 
who  come  for  the  refreshment  and  stimula 
tion  of  her  ideas  and  conversation  ?  Men 
tally  American  women  do  not  interest 
American  men. 

JULY  23. 

Louisa  has  become  a  raging  Christian 
Scientist. 

A  distant  memory  returns  to  me.  Once 
upon  a  time  there  was  a  little  girl  who, 
after  the  manner  of  her  sex,  feared  greatly 
125 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

all  and  sundry  of  certain  fierce  beasts, 
among  which  were  to  be  enumerated  rats, 
A  New  mice,  bumblebees,  and  more  viv- 
Law  of  idly  and  especially  DOGS — whose 
culminating  direfulness  was  only 
to  be  expressed  in  italicized  capitals.  On  a 
day,  being  bidden  to  go  across  the  village 
street  to  deliver  a  note  to  an  opposite 
neighbour,  she  set  out,  radiating  the  pleas 
ing  results  of  soap,  brushes,  and  a  clean 
pinafore,  but  on  reaching  the  gate  came 
to  a  sudden  pause.  A  specimen  of  the 
worst  of  enemies,  who  seemed  to  the  per 
spective  of  an  eye  only  three  feet  from  the 
ground  to  easily  rival  an  elephant  in  size, 
lay  prone  across  the  path,  lolling  an  intimi 
dating  tongue,  and  rolling  an  eye  which, 
though  outwardly  calm,  might  be  guessed 
to  conceal  a  horrid  intent.  There  was  a 
swish  of  short  starched  skirts,  a  twinkle 
of  bare  knees,  and  appeal  was  made  to 
that  infallible  power  and  knowledge  which 
Providence  has  so  wisely  placed  in  mothers. 
Being  a  person  of  nimble  imagination  this 
particular  parent,  realizing  that  a  mastiff 
as  large  in  proportion  to  her  own  inches 
as  this  one  was  to  the  normal  height  of  five 
126 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

years  might  well  daunt  her  own  courage, 
forbore  to  remonstrate  or  use  reason. 

"Here,"  she  said  placidly,  "is  a  lump 
of  sugar.  Put  it  on  your  tongue  and  hold 
it  there.  Of  course,  no  dog  will  touch  a 
person  who  has  sugar  on  her  tongue." 

And  so  fortified,  Five  Years  set  forth 
with  a  conviction  of  immunity  that  carried 
her  triumphantly  past  the  source  of  terror. 
The  incident  is  not  in  itself,  perhaps,  of  his 
toric  importance,  but  is  a  particularly  vivid 
example  of  the  absolute  divorce  in  the  unde 
veloped  mind  between  the  laws  of  cause 
and  effect,  and  in  no  department  of  human 
thought  has  that  divorce  continued  so  long 
as  in  the  science  of  health.  Every  one  of 
us  can  revive  out  of  childhood  a  memory 
of  the  balm  that  overspread  the  injured 
temple  when  a  sympathetic  nurse  bestowed 
the  richly  deserved  spanking  upon  the 
offending  chair  corner  that  had  caused  the 
pain,  or  applied  the  clearly  indicated  plaster 
of  a  kiss;  and  medicine  in  its  long  career 
has  followed  the  intelligent  example  of  the 
nursery.  But  while  medicine  as  a  science 
has  passed  out  of  this  stage  with  the  gen 
eral  growth  of  knowledge,  the  bulk  of 
127 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

mankind  still  continues  to  put  sugar  on  the 
tongue  as  a  protection  against  dogs,  to 
castigate  chair  corners,  and  to  apply  reme 
dies  as  unknown  to  the  pharmacopoeia  as 
the  feminine  kiss.  Perhaps  the  stolen  po 
tato  carried  in  the  pocket,  or  the  bit  of  red 
flannel  bound  on  the  left  wrist,  are  not  so 
trusted  a  remedy  for  the  pangs  of  rheuma 
tism  as  they  were  fifty  years  ago,  and  the 
dried  heart  of  a  mouse  worn  in  a  bag  about 
the  neck  seems  to  have  lost  its  potency 
against  epileptic  seizures,  yet  the  very  large 
sums  spent  annually  upon  patent  medi 
cines  —  rivalling  in  amount  what  is  known 
in  temperance  circles  as  the  "Drink  Bill" 
—  and  the  rise  and  popularity  of  innu 
merable  mushroom  "cures"  and  systems, 
proves  that  the  laws  of  health  are  still  as 
heterogeneous  from  the  intelligence  of  the 
majority  of  mankind  as  are  the  laws  of  the 
differential  calculus. 

It  would  be  diverting,  were  it  not  so 
pathetic,  to  see  the  constant  endeavour  on 
the  part  of  the  multitude  to  lift  itself  by  its 
own  hygienic  boot-straps  in  the  form  of 
barefoot  cures,  mind  cures,  prayer  cures, 
cures  by  clairvoyance,  by  magnetism,  red  or 
128 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

blue  lights,  or  by  pilgrimages  and  relics. 
The  child  moving  about  in  worlds  unreal 
ized  is  still  the  father  and  epitome  of  the 
man,  and  sees  no  reason  why  his  own  will, 
or  that  of  some  Power  wishing  him  indi 
vidually  well,  should  not  break  through  the 
immutable  sequence  of  cause  and  effect,  or 
upset  the  machinery  of  the  universe  in 
his  behalf.  His  childish  "Let's  pretend" 
sweeps  away  for  the  moment  the  dull  per 
sistency  of  facts  and  opens  a  world  where 
it  is  possible  to  eat  one's  cake  and  have  it 
too,  and  after  dancing  escape  the  bill  for 
the  fiddling. 

Speaking  accurately  there  is,  of  course, 
no  such  thing  as  a  new  law  of  health  - 
such  laws  being  of  their  very  nature  eternal 
-  but  a  consciousness  of  the  hygienic  code 
is  as  new  as  was  the  discovery  not  more  than 
a  century  ago  of  the  forces  of  electricity, 
which  had,  though  the  most  powerful  agent 
upon  the  earth,  lain  ready  to  our  hands 
unrecognized  throughout  recorded  time. 

The  unfortunate  fact  that  the  world  of 
knowledge  is  not  a  globe  is  shown  by  this  - 
that  if,  in  setting  out  toward  a  fixed  goal  of 
truth,  one's  face   is  turned  in  the  wrong 
129 


THE   SECR  ET   LIFE 

direction,  no  length  of  travel,  no  miracle 
of  persistency,  ever  conducts  to  the  haven 
where  one  would  be.  A  truth  of  moral 
geography  by  no  means  universally  accepted 
as  yet,  and  indeed  certain  inherent  tenden 
cies  of  human  nature,  will  forever  prevent 
its  unanimous  acceptance,  a  chronic  child 
ishness  of  mind  being  so  common  that  one 
would  almost  despair  of  the  acceptance  of 
any  new  truth,  were  it  not  that  the  adult 
intelligence  of  the  few  eventually  imposes 
its  conclusions  upon  the  multitude,  or  en 
forces  at  least  an  outward  concurrence. 
The  immature-minded  many  are  always 
lusting  after  a  sign  of  the  wonderful,  and 
kicking  against  the  pricks  of  plain  truth. 
Bullied  out  of  crediting  the  existence  of 
ghosts  and  fairies,  they  earnestly  engage 
in  burning  witches,  and  shamed  out  of 
such  mistaken  zeal  fling  themselves  into 
the  arms  of  spiritualist  mediums,  flirt  with 
the  theosophists,  or  die  under  the  minis 
trations  of  Christian  Scientists.  The  whole 
history  of  supernaturalism  has  been  the 
history  of  travel  in  the  wrong  direction  — 
a  wrong  turning  that  had  its  beginning  in  a 
childish  impatience  that  would  attain  to  its 
130 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

end  by  sudden  leaps  in  lieu  of  dusty  plod 
ding  along  the  highway  that  led  by  slow 
windings  to  the  desired  end. 

Man  found  painful  barriers  of  time,  space, 
and  physical  decay  fencing  him  out  of  his 
Eden  of  gratified  desire,  and  like  a  child 
he  straightway  fell  to  dreaming  of  flying 
carpets,  of  magic  lamps,  of  transmutable 
metals,  of  fountains  of  youth  and  elixirs  of 
life.  At  first  these  miracles  were  thought 
to  be  the  gifts  of  shadowy,  higher  powers, 
who  were  happily  superior  to  the  cruel 
limits  of  material  existence,  and  might  give 
their  assistance  according  to  their  capri 
cious  elfin  fancy.  Later,  man  began  to  be 
lieve  that  in  himself  lay  the  powers  which 
were  to  break  the  chains  that  bound  him 
the  unhappy  slave  of  distance,  of  the  need 
for  labour,  of  the  tyrannies  of  nature,  with 
her  resistless  heat  and  cold,  storm  and 
flood,  pain  and  age.  A  glimmering  of  the 
truth,  this,  at  last,  but  only  a  faint  reflection 
on  the  horizon  of  the  rising  sun,  on  which 
he  had  turned  his  back.  There  followed 
a  period  of  fasts  and  macerations  whose 
courage  and  persistency  was  to  make  the 
gods  tremble  in  respectful  terror  —  a  tri- 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

umph  over  material  passions  which  should 
give  an  occult  power  over  material  limita 
tions.  The  Buddhists  stood  moveless  and 
speechless  until  the  birds  reared  their  young 
in  their  hair,  and  thereby  were  supposed 
to  grow  so  mighty  that  the  mountains 
rocked  beneath  the  weight  of  their  thoughts, 
and  space  and  time  were  annihilated. 

Superb  energies,  passionate  patience  and 
ardour,  master  intellects,  were  wasted  in  the 
long  endeavour  to  find  some  means  by 
which  nature  could  be  conquered  and  man 
made  master  of  circumstance  —  all  given 
fruitlessly;  thrown  into  that  bottomless  pit 
of  error  never  to  be  filled.  And  these 
earnest,  misguided  travellers  —  so  blinded 
were  they  —  when  one  of  their  number 
turned  about  in  the  other  direction  promptly 
fell  upon  him  and  beat  him  into  submission, 
as  one  who  would  check  the  struggle  towards 
light  and  knowledge.  Even  now  that  the 
fact  is  accepted  that  nature  is  to  be  con 
quered  by  her  own  natural  means  only,  and 
that  supernaturalism  is  a  waste  and  quak 
ing  morass  upon  which  no  edifice  of  truth 
is  to  be  reared,  there  are  many  —  sadly 
many  —  descendants  of  Lot's  wife  casting 
132 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

longing  glances  back  to  the  Sodom  of  their 
intellectual  sins.  It  is  nothing  to  them  that 
having  once  faced  about  in  the  right  direc 
tion  the  same  amount  of  effort,  properly 
directed,  has  achieved  that  for  which  the 
supernaturalists  had  for  ages  striven  in 
vain. 

Eating  his  due  amount  of  food  and  attach 
ing  no  mystical  significance  to  anything, 
man  tore  his  way  through  the  heart  of 
mountains,  flashed  his  thoughts  under  the 
wastes  of  ocean,  sent  his  voice  across  a 
thousand  miles,  sailed  into  the  teeth  of  the 
wind,  devoured  space  with  steam,  reared 
palaces  more  lofty  than  Aladdin  dreamed 
of,  and  —  his  own  Kobold — dived  into 
the  darkness  and  fetched  up  gold  and  gems 
more  than  the  fairy  tales  ever  knew.  He 
made  himself  lord  of  the  visible  earth,  of 
time,  of  distance,  of  wave  and  wind.  He 
laid  his  hands  upon  all  the  forces  which  had 
awed  his  childhood  and  forced  them  to 
work  miracles  beside  which  the  fables  of 
the  Kabbalists  seemed  tame  and  feeble. 
And  in  spite  of  this  there  remain  men  and 
women  who  are  more  awed  by  a  banjo  fly 
ing  through  a  dark  room  than  by  the  tele- 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

phone ;  who  find  the  untying  of  knots  in  a 
cabinet,  or  the  clutches  of  damp  hands  when 
the  lights  are  turned  down,  more  important 
than  the  automobile.  It  is  the  attitude  of 
mind  of  a  child,  who  is  more  interested  by 
rabbits  coming  out  of  a  conjurer's  hat  than 
by  wireless  telegraphy. 

There  is  as  great  an  inequality  in  the 
inheritance  of  health  as  in  the  heirship  of 
wealth  or  brains.  Some  are  born  with  a 
fortune  of  vigour  and  soundness  so  large 
that  not  a  lifetime  of  eager  squandering 
will  leave  them  poor,  and  others  enter  the 
world  paupers  of  so  dire  a  need  that  no 
charity  of  medicine  will  ever  raise  them  to 
comfort;  but  most  of  us  have  just  that 
mediocre  legacy  of  vitality  which  makes 
us  indistinguishable  units  in  the  mass.  It 
lies  in  the  hands  of  each  to  improve  or 
waste  that  property  as  he  chooses,  for  there 
are  self-made  men  physically  as  well  as 
financially,  and  spendthrifts  of  health  come 
to  as  sorrowful  an  end  as  prodigals  of  gold. 
The  body  is  a  realm  where  a  wise  ruler 
brings  happiness  as  surely  as  a  foolish  one 
ensures  distress,  and  wisdom  here,  as  else 
where,  lies  in  the  observance  of  natural  laws. 
134 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

It  is  just  these  natural  laws  —  simple, 
severe,  inexorable  —  against  which  the  ma 
jority  chafe,  for  which  some  magic  pill  or 
potion  is  offered  as  a  substitute.  Tem 
perance,  cleanliness,  activity,  are  the  three 
cardinal  virtues  of  the  body,  as  faith,  hope, 
and  charity  are  of  the  soul.  As  tithes  of 
mint,  anise,  and  cumin  are  easier  to  render 
than  the  observance  of  law,  justice,  and 
judgment,  so  burnt-offerings  of  drugs  are 
offered  to  the  Goddess  Hygeia  in  place  of 
obedience  to  her  regimen.  After  the  ex 
cesses  of  the  carnival  came  the  brief  rigours 
of  the  Lenten  retreat,  and  after  the  Fat 
Tuesday  of  gluttony  comes  the  short  atone 
ment  of  the  "Cure"  at  some  mineral  spring, 
where  the  priests  of  health  are  yielded  a 
complete  but  passing  submission.  It  is 
easier  to  repeat  incessant  formulae  of  prayer 
than  persistently  to  keep  one's  self  unspotted 
from  the  world,  and  it  is  easier  for  fat  old 
sinners  to  paddle  about  barefoot  in  the 
dew  at  a  Kneippe  cure  than  to  abandon  at 
once  and  forever  their  little  darling  sins  of 
greediness  or  indolence.  One  hears  a  con 
stant  cry  of  "Lo,  Here!"  and  "Lo,  There!" 
and  all  the  world  rushes  to  sit  hopefully 

135 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

under  blue  glass  or  swathe  itself  in  pure 
wool  in  the  ever-renewed  belief  that  some 
substitute  may  be  found  for  the  fatiguing 
necessity  of  obedience  to  the  three  rules. 

Even  yet  ill  health  is  considered  as  a  sort 
of  supernatural  visitation  rather  than  a  cer 
tain  result  of  the  infringement  of  plain 
laws.  I  remember  reading  once  a  clever 
book,  less  popular  than  it  deserved  to  be, 
which  told  of  a  country  in  the  heart  of  the 
Andes  in  which  the  intelligent  inhabitants 
looked  upon  crime  as  the  unfortunate  result 
of  congenital  temperament;  a  disease  de 
manding  sympathy  and  treatment;  but  ill 
health  aroused  only  condemnation  as  a  wil 
ful  infringement  of  wise  and  well  under 
stood  laws.  A  bronchial  case  caused  arrest 
and  imprisonment,  and  friends  of  the  family 
considered  it  rude  to  cough  in  the  presence 
of  the  criminal's  unfortunate  family;  but 
a  severe  attack  of  embezzlement  was  cause 
of  polite  condolence,  and  cards  were  left 
upon  the  invalid  with  kind  inquiries  as  to 
whether  he  was  receiving  the  best  moral 
attention.  An  idea  less  whimsical  than  it 
may  seem. 

Paracelsus  —  who  was  accused  of  magic 
136 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

because  his  cures  were  effected  by  such 
simple  means  —  always  asserted  that  if  he 
were  allowed  to  absolutely  direct  a  child's 
diet  from  its  birth  he  could  build  up  a  con 
stitution  which  might  without  difficulty  be 
made  to  last  out  a  century  in  undiminished 
vigour;  and  there  are  those  who  are  pre 
pared  to  accept  literally  the  age  of  the 
antediluvian  patriarchs,  on  the  ground  that 
as  at  that  time  bread  had  not  been  dis 
covered,  digestions  never  called  upon  to 
struggle  with  starch  found  no  difficulty  in 
sustaining  life  to  Methuselah's  term. 

It  is  certain  that  the  subtle  but  supremely 
important  chemistry  of  nutrition  has  been 
shamefully  neglected  in  favour  of  matters 
far  less  germane  to  happiness,  and  that  the 
same  skill  which  has  developed  the  science 
of  bacteriology  and  pursued  the  most  elu 
sive  microbe  to  his  most  secret  lair  might 
have  been  more  profitably  applied.  After 
the  microbe  has  been  found  and  named 
his  dangerousness  remains  unattenuated. 
How  much  more  valuable  would  be  a  knowl 
edge  —  equally  attainable  —  of  exactly  the 
amount  and  nature  of  the  food  for  the  best 
results  of  growth  and  health. 
137 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

There  is  a  farmer  ant  in  the  West  Indies, 
who,  in  a  carefully  prepared  soil,  com 
pounded  of  flowers  and  leaves,  grows  a  tiny 
fungus  on  which  he  feeds.  The  eggs  of 
this  ant  seem,  when  hatched,  to  produce 
creatures  all  alike,  but  through  different 
feeding  they  develop  into  warriors,  farmers, 
or  queens,  as  may  be  needed.  If  through 
an  accident  the  supply  of  warriors  is  dan 
gerously  lowered,  larvae  being  fed  with  the 
meat  which  nourishes  farmers  are  trans 
ferred  to  the  soldiers'  nursery,  and  change 
of  diet  produces  change  of  nature. 

Ah!  could  we  too  know  upon  what  meat 
to  feed  our  Caesars,  or  Roosevelts,  that 
they  might  grow  so  great.  What  a  much 
more  important  achievement  that  would 
be  than  the  naming  of  microbes  which 
would  be  impotent  to  injure  a  perfectly 
nourished  body. 

To  know  the  law,  to  practise  it  daily  — 
there  is  the  secret  of  the  fountain  of  youth, 
the  elixir  of  life.  These  Christian  Scien 
tists,  who  practise  the  latest  abracadabra 
to  conjure  away  the  effects  of  fixed  causes, 
who  dream  that  pain  arises  from  sin,  and 
can  be  abolished  by  faith,  childishly  over- 
138 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

look  the  fact  that  pain  in  itself  is  no  evil, 
but  rather  a  good.  It  is  simply  a  tele 
graphic  message  sent  over  the  nerve-wires 
to  the  brain  to  inform  it  that  some  member 
of  the  physical  commonwealth  is  in  danger 
and  requires  help. 

Not  by  magic  is  health  to  be  obtained. 
Flying  carpets  will  not  reach  it.  Fasts  and 
prayers  will  not  call  it  down  from  heaven. 
Fixed,  immortal,  the  laws  continue.  Al 
ways  unchanged;  always  inexorable.  The 
wages  of  the  sin  of  disobedience  are  disease. 

JULY  24. 

I  wonder  if  there  is  still  anyone  in  all  the 
world   to   whom   this    date   is   important  ? 
And  after  all  why  should  it  be  ?       "Dead, 
In    twenty-three    years    a    whole        Dead> 
generation  has  come  into  life;  has 
wept  and  laughed,  and  loved  and  married, 
and  produced  another  generation  to  do  the 
same  thing  —  and  who  remembers  the  roses 
that  withered  even  yesterday  ? 


Oh,    wild,    loud    wind, 
Who,  moaning,  as  in  pain, 
Beats  with  wet  fingers  at  my  door  in  vain, 
Dost  thou  come  from  the  graves  with  that  sad  cry 

139 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

Which  pleads  for  entrance,  and  denied,  goes  by 
To  faint  in  tears  amidst  the  freezing  rain  ? 

In  here  the  live  red  fire  glows  again. 
Of  life  and  living  we  are  full  and  fain. 
Here  is  no  thought  of  death,  or  men  that  die  — 
Oh,  wild,  loud  wind! 

Why  shouldst  thou  come  then  to  my  window  pane 
To  wring  thy  hands  and  weep,  and  sore  complain 
That  they  alone  all  sad  and  cold  must  lie 
In  wet,  dark  graves,  and  we  breathe  not  a  sigh  ? 
We  have  forgot.     The  quick  and  dead  are  twain, 
Oh,  wild,  loud  wind! 


SEPTEMBER  6. 

J was  reading  me  parts  of  his  new 

book  in  manuscript  to-day,  and  I  objected 
Verbal  that  it  lacked  style.  "Why,  all  the 
Magic.  successful  writers  tell  me  that 
style  is  unnecessary,'*  he  said  in  an  injured 

tone.  "D says  he  just  writes  ahead 

and  pays  no  attention  to  it.  He  says  that 
the  laboriousness  of  Stevenson  and  Flau 
bert  has  'gone  out,'  and  the  public  are 
bored  by  it.  And  just  see  how  successful 
D is!" 

What  was  one  to  say  ?  I  merely  tried 
to  look  convinced  and  begged  him  to  con 
tinue.  And  yet  Emerson  said  that  when 
140 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

the  distraught  Hamlet  cried  to  the  mailed 
spirit  of  his  father, 

"What  may  this  mean, 

That  thou,  dead  corse,  again  in  complete  steel 
Revisit'st  thus  the  glimpses  of  the  moon  ?" 

he  was  so  possessed  by  the  verbal  magic  of 
the  phrase  that  he  could  attend  no  more 
to  the  rest  of  the  play. 

Perhaps  it  is  some  penetrating  assonance 
in  that  "complete  steel"  -  in  those  sibilant 
repetitions  of  "revisit'st  thus  the  glimpses" 
-  that  makes  its  witchery.  Poe  carefully 
analyzed  the  science  of  it  —  which  is  no 
science  at  all,  but  the  inscrutable  magic  of 
inspiration.  Such  lines  as 

"Came  up  through  the  lair  of  the  lion 
With  love  in  her  luminous  eyes" 

are  built  upon  that  theory  of  liquid  con 
sonants  and  open  vowels,  and  it  has  no 
magic  at  all,  while  "To  Annie"  -which 
was  written  without  conscious  plan  —  is 
full  of  it. 

"Her  grand  family  funerals"  is  in 
stinct  with  that  prickling  delight  of  the 
magic  of  words,  as  is  "the  wizard  rout" 
of  the  bodiless  airs  that  blew  through  her 
"casement  open  to  the  night." 
141 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 
Tennyson's  famous  alliteration, 

"The  moaning  of  doves  in  immemorial  elms 
And  the  murmur  of  innumerable  bees" 

lacks  glamour.     One  scents  the  intention. 

"Ay!    Ay!     oh  ay! 
The    wind    that    blows    the    brier" 

recaptures  the  elusive  charm,  because  of 
its  wild,  unconscious  lyrism. 

Fancy  these  absurd,  ignorant  young 
writers  talking  of  style  having  "gone  out"! 
Apparently  they  suppose  it  means  "fine 
writing,"  in  which  nothing  is  more  lacking 
than  style.  The  essence  of  style,  I  suppose, 
is  in  the  inspired,  instinctive  choice  of 
words  which  present  suddenly  to  the  mind 
a  picture  of  what  the  writer  is  talking  about. 
The  whole  clou  of  Hamlet's  phrase  is  that 
"glimpses  of  the  moon."  It  makes  one 
see  the  vague,  intangible  momentariness 
of  the  apparition.  Sir  Thomas  Browne's 
famous  "drums  and  tramplings  of  three 
conquests"  gives  just  that  flashing  picture 
of  the  banners  and  rolling  sounds  of  those 
long  vanished  invasions.  And  Keats's 

"Casements  opening  on  the  foam 
Of  perilous  seas  in  fairy  lands  forlorn" 

presents  the  indescribable  to  the  eye. 
142 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

There  is,  of  course,  that  other  element 
of  musical  quality,  and  Hamlet's  phrase  is 
delicious  for  its  strange,  broken  sibilations, 
but  without  the  picture  the  alliterations  and 
vowel  sounds  are  but  dead  things.  All 
the  fine,  rolling,  organ-like  sonority  of 
Swinburne's  Hymn  to  Proserpine  would  be 
tedious  without  the  impressions  of  light 
and  colour  that  palpitate  through  the  lines. 
For  style  I  can  think  of  no  better  modern 
example  than  the  concluding  paragraph  in 
Lafcadio  Hearn's  paper  on  the  dragon-fly 
in  the  volume  called  Kotto: 

"...  then  let  me  hope  that  the  state 
to  which  I  am  destined  will  not  be  worse 
than  that  of  a  cicade  or  of  a  dragon-fly;  — 
climbing  the  cryptomerias  to  clash  my  tiny 
cymbals  in  the  sun,  —  or  haunting,  with 
soundless  flicker  of  amethyst  and  gold,  some 
holy  silence  of  lotus  pools/' 

OCTOBER  8. 

Old    Mr.    A was    most    interesting 

to-night  at  dinner  on  the   subject  of  the 
various   Hamlets   he   has   seen  —      _ 

.  ilamlet. 

apparently  every  actor  of  any  im 
portance  who  has  attempted  the  part  in  the 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

last  sixty  years;  not  only  the  English-speak 
ing  ones,  but  German  and  French  as  well. 
After  dwelling  upon  all  manner  of  details 
of  the  varied  dress,  business,  scenery,  and 
so  forth,  of  the  different  men  who  have 
attempted  the  role,  I  asked  him  which  of 
them  all  he  considered  to  have  been  the 
best,  and  he  decided  after  some  hesitation 
that  not  one  of  them  satisfied  him  com 
pletely.  "Not  one  of  them  all,"  he  con 
cluded,  "seemed  to  me  to  have  a  clear, 
comprehensive  grasp  of  the  essentials  of 
the  part.  Each  appeared  to  try  to  express 
some  one  phase  of  it,  but  you  felt  the  thing 
as  a  whole  escaped  them."  Which  is,  per 
haps,  not  to  be  wondered  at,  since,  so  far, 
it  appears,  as  a  complete  conception,  to 
have  escaped  every  one.  No  one  of  the 
Shakespearian  scholars  has  expressed  what 
definite  meaning  the  play  in  its  entirety 
conveyed  to  his  mind. 

Mr.  A — 's  talk  interested  me  immensely, 
much  more  than  any  of  those  long-winded 
mystical  triumphs  of  verbiage  the  Germans 
perpetrate.  I  have  seen  but  two  eminent 
actors  in  the  part.  Booth's  Hamlet  was, 
of  course,  only  a  noble  piece  of  elocution, 
144 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

not  an  interpretation,  and  without  vitality. 
Mounet  Sully --but  then  all  Frenchmen 
believe  Hamlet  mad,  despite  his  express 
warning  to  Horatio  - 

"How  strange  or  odd  so'er  I  bear  myself, 
As  I,  perchance,  hereafter  shall  think  meet 
To  put  an  antic  disposition  on  ..." 

And  of  his  confidence  to  Guildenstern  that 
he  is  but 

"Mad  nor'-nor'-west.     When  the  wind  is  southerly 
I  know  a  hawk  from  a  hernshaw." 

Of  course,  I've  a  theory  of  my  own  about 
Hamlet.  It  seems  to  me  that  the  difficulty 
most  persons  experience  in  endeavouring 
to  penetrate  what  they  call  "the  mystery" 
of  the  Prince's  character  arises  from  the 
fact  that  they  read  the  play  either  carelessly 
or  with  some  prepossession,  to  fit  which 
they  bend  all  that  he  says  or  does.  The 
German  critics  blunder  through  forget 
ting  how  essentially  sane  and  unmys- 
tical  was  Shakespeare  in  every  fibre  of  his 
mind.  To  him  the  cloudy  symbolism  of 
the  second  part  of  Faust  would  have  sounded 
very  like  nonsense.  His  interest  was  in 
man — the  normal,  typical  man  and  his 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

passions  of  hate,  love,  ambition,  revenge, 
envy,  humour.  .  .  . 

To  me  the  key  to  Hamlet  seems  to  be  a 
proper  regard  for  the  attitude  of  the  mind 
of  the  seventeenth  century  toward  the 
belief  in  ghosts.  The  Englishman  of  Shake 
speare's  day  hardly  doubted  their  exist 
ence,  but  was  unsettled  as  to  the  nature 
and  origin  of  spectres.  Whether  they  were 
truly  shades  of  the  departed  ones  which 
they  resembled,  or  were  merely  horrid 
delusions  of  the  mind,  projected  upon  it  by 
some  malign  and  hellish  influence,  they 
were  not  clear. 

Hamlet  says: 

"The  spirit  that  I  have  seen 
May  be  the  devil:  and  the  devil  hath  power 
To  assume  a  pleasing  shape;  yea,  and  perhaps, 
Out  of  my  weakness  and  melancholy, 
(as  he  is  very  potent  with  such  spirits) 
Abuses  me  to  damn  me:     I'll  have  grounds 
More  relative  than  this  ..." 

Personally,  my  method  of  endeavouring 
to  clear  vexed  questions  is  to  make  an  effort 
to  conceive  of  my  own  emotions  and  actions 
in  a  like  difficulty.  To  understand  Hamlet 
I  try  to  imagine  what  my  frame  of  mind 

would  be  if  P had  died,  suddenly  and 

146 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

tragically,  during  my  absence.  Hastening 
home  in  all  the  turmoil  of  grief  and  shock 
I  find  H—  -  has  grasped  all  P 's  for 
tune  and  has  promptly  married  M , 

whom  I  had  expected  to  find  as  afflicted 
as  I.  Naturally  I  would  be  deeply  hor 
rified  and  offended  and  greatly  puzzled 
over  such  a  situation.  When  one  injects 
the  warmth  and  power  of  one's  own  emo 
tions  into  a  situation  by  personifying  it 
with  one's  own  kinspeople  one  begins  to 
realize  Hamlet's  condition  of  mind  prior 
to  the  appearance  of  the  Ghost.  A  ghostly 
visitation  not  being  imaginable  nowadays, 
one  may  suppose  one's  self  having  a  vivid 
and  circumstantial  dream,  making  all  these 
curious  conditions  clear  by  an  explanation 
of  hideous  criminality.  The  hysterical  dis 
traction  of  Hamlet's  interview  with  the 
Ghost  seems  natural  enough  when  one 
pictures  one's  own  horror  and  incredulity 
on  awaking  from  such  a  vision. 

Of  course,  a  reaction  would  follow  the 
first  red  lust  for  denunciation  and  for  re 
venge  of  the  deep  damnation  of  the  taking 
off  of  the  helpless  victim.  One  would  be 
continually  paralyzed  in  the  very  act  of 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

vengeance  by  the  remembrance  that  one 
had  no  better  authority  than  a  dream  for 
proof  of  crime  in  those  one  had  always 
loved  and  trusted.  The  thing  would  seem 
so  incredible,  and  yet  the  dream  would 
explain  all  the  puzzling  facts  so  clearly. 
To  a  young  and  noble  mind,  evil  in  those 
one  loves  appears  impossible.  One  would 
be  always  fighting  the  thought  —  which 
pulled  the  very  ground  of  confidence  from 
under  one's  feet  —  and  yet  always  laying 
traps  to  prove  one's  suspicions  true,  as 
the  jealous  notoriously  do;  wishing  yet 
fearing  to  know  the  truth.  Hamlet's  vary 
ing  fits  of  violence  and  indecision  seem 
natural  enough  under  the  circumstances, 
and  not  a  sign  of  madness  nor  of  eccen 
tricity  of  character.  He  is  called  the  "Mel 
ancholy  Dane,"  but  to  a  young  confiding 
heart  the  first  revelation  of  the  possibility 
of  filth  and  criminality  in  those  near  in 
blood  and  love  causes  distrust  of  all  the 
world;  arouses  a  mad  desire  for  escape  out 
of  a  cruel  existence  where  such  spiritual 
squalour  is  possible.  If  one  will  bring  the 
situation  home  to  one's  self  in  this' way - 
vivifying  it  with  one's  own  heart  —  Hamlet 

148 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

no  longer  seems  a  strange  and  alien  soul, 
but  one's  very  own  self  caught  in  a  web  of 
horrid  circumstance,  and  doing  and  being 
just  what  one's  self  would  do  and  be  in 
like  case.  Temptation  to  suicide,  murder, 
"unpacking  one's  heart  with  words,"  bitter 
ness  to,  and  distrust  of,  the  innocent  Ophelia, 
treachery,  doubt,  indecision, — all  are  inevit 
able  temptations.  Looked  at  in  this  way, 
there  is  no  mystery  at  all  in  the  play  if  one 
reads  it  straight  and  simply,  and  from  the 
human  point  of  view  —  which  view  was 
always  Shakespeare's,  I  think. 

DECEMBER  13. 

The  R — s  are  home  this  week  from 
California,  and  full  of  a  surprising  tale  of 
their  experience  in  renting  and 

K..        .  Ghosts. 

trying  to  live  in  a  haunted  house. 
They  had  no  idea  of  its  unpleasant  character 
when  they  took  it.     Indeed  they  decided 
upon  it  principally  because  of  the  sunniness 
of  the    rooms   and   its   generally   cheerful 
character.     The  only  suspicious  feature  was 
the  very  moderate  price;  but  that  appears 
to  have  aroused  only  gratitude  instead  of 
suspicion  in  their  minds. 
149 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

The  sounds  they  heard,  which  finally 
drove  them  out  of  the  house,  were  such 
commonplace  ones  —  the  clinking  of  medi 
cine  bottles,  the  mixing  of  stuff  in  saucers  — 
that  one  hardly  believes  they  could  have 
invented  them.  Invention  would  certainly 
have  conceived  a  more  dramatic  excuse  for 
abandoning  a  house.  Also,  they  solemnly 
aver  that  it  was  only  upon  their  giving  up 
the  lease  that  they  heard  the  story  of  the 
almost  incredible  tragedy  of  the  former 
owner's  death. 

There  certainly  must  be  some  manifes 
tations  such  as  are  commonly  known  as 
"ghostly."  I  never  have  come  across  any 
personally,  but  the  testimony  is  too  fre 
quent  and  persistent  for  doubt.  Some  phe 
nomena  have  undoubtedly  been  observed 
of  which  the  laws  are  not  yet  understood. 
The  psychologists  profess  to  be  working 
in  this  direction,  but  the  psychology  of  our 
day  is  still  in  about  the  condition  of  as 
tronomy  and  chemistry  in  the  days  of  the 
thirteenth-century  astrologers  and  alche 
mists —  mere  blind  flounderings.  We  need 
a  psychological  Copernicus  badly.  I  am 
convinced  that  what  are  commonly  called 
150 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

"superstitions"  are  really  observed  results 
of  unknown  causes.  When  I  was  a  child  the 
negroes  always  warned  one  that  it  brought 
bad  luck  to  go  near  a  stable  when  one  had 
a  cut  finger.  Nothing  could  seem  more 
blindly  uncorrelated,  and  yet  it  is  now 
known  that  the  germ  of  tetanus  breeds 
only  in  manure,  which  shows  that  their 
observation  was  correct,  though  they  had 
no  conception  of  germs,  or  microbes.  It 
was  an  old  superstition,  derided  by  the 
medical  profession,  that  there  was  some 
merit  in  hanging  red  curtains  at  the  win 
dows  of  a  smallpox  patient;  yet  recently 
some  interesting  discoveries  have  been  made 
as  to  the  effect  of  red  light  upon  sufferers 
from  this  disease. 

Again  there  is  the  old-wife's  belief  that 
the  howling  of  a  dog  presages  death.  I 
saw  no  sense  in  that  until  I  was  brought 
in  contact  with  death  for  the  first  time,  and 
then  discovered  that  a  person  near  the  end, 
and  immediately  afterwards,  emitted  a 
powerful  odour,  very  like  the  smell  of  tube 
roses.  In  two  cases  within  my  experience 
this  odour  remained  in  the  death-chamber, 
despite  persistent  airing  and  cleaning,  for 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

fully  a  year.  My  sense  of  smell  is  extremely 
acute,  and  no  one  seemed  to  remark  this 
odour  but  myself,  nor  have  I  ever  heard  or 
seen  any  mention  of  the  phenomenon  being 
noticed  by  others;  but  naturally  a  dog, 
whose  sense  of  smell  must  be  a  thousand 
times  more  acute  than  mine,  is  aware  of 
this  strange,  half  repulsive  perfume,  which 
has  the  effect  upon  his  nerves  produced  also, 
apparently,  by  moonlight  and  by  music. 

If  fresh  rose  leaves  are  shut  closely  into 
a  drawer  until  they  have  thoroughly  dried 
and  crumbled,  they  will  be  found,  when 
removed,  entirely  scentless,  but  the  drawer 
will  retain  for  years  some  intangible  emana 
tion  which  they  have  given  off,  and  this 
will  permeate  any  object  left  in  the  drawer. 
Recent  delicate  experiments  have  shown 
how  the  violence  of  emotion  will  affect  the 
weight  of  human  beings,  and  no  doubt,  in 
supreme  crises  of  feeling,  living  bodies  may 
lose  this  weight  by  the  throwing  off  of  some 
emanation  which  may  linger  for  a  long 
time  in  the  immediate  surroundings.  It 
has  been  discovered  that  many  objects 
retain  luminosity,  after  being  long  exposed 
to  powerful  rays;  a  luminosity  invisible 
152 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

to  our  sight,  but  sufficient  to  make  dim 
photographs  upon  highly  sensitized  plates. 
The  "ghosts"  are  very  probably  explicable 
on  some  such  theory  as  this.  Some  indi 
viduals  are  like  these  extremely  sensitive 
plates.  The  emanations  thrown  out  in  the 
condition  of  intense  emotion  affect  them, 
and  give  them  an  impression  of  sounds  or 
sights  which  appear,  in  our  present  state  of 
ignorance,  to  be  supernatural.  Of  course, 
any  psychologist  or  scientist  would  pooh- 
pooh  this  hypothesis  of  mine,  if  it  were  made 
public,  but  equally  they  would  have  sniffed 
fifty  years  ago  at  a  guess  at  wireless  teleg 
raphy,  or  the  Roentgen  ray,  or  the  radio 
activity  of  radium.  After  all,  however,  they 
are  right  in  thinking  that  guesses  are  not 
very  valuable  unless  one  has  the  industry 
to  demonstrate  their  accuracy. 

DECEMBER  20. 

If  there  is  any  one  thing  more  particu 
larly  repulsive  to  me  than  another  it  is  the 
way  the  average  clerical  person  Amateur 
speaks  of  religious  things.  One  Saints. 
would  suppose  that  such  matters,  if  one 
really  believed  them,  would  be  the  pro- 
J53 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

foundest  sentiments  of  one's  nature,  and 
be  mentioned  with  the  reserve  and  rever 
ence  with  which  the  lay  person  treats  the 
deeper  sentiments,  such  as  love,  honour, 
or  patriotism. 

A  little  pamphlet  came  by  mail  to-day, 
which  proved  to  be  a  sort  of  begging  letter 
from  a  community  of  Protestant  clergymen, 
who  are  undertaking  to  imitate  monasti- 
cism  in  America.  Under  a  heading  of  a 
cross  is  this  text,  "If  we  have  sown  unto 
you  spiritual  things,  is  it  a  great  matter  if 
we  shall  reap  your  worldly  things  ? "  And 
there  follows  an  appeal  for  assistance  in 
building  a  monastery  on  the  Hudson.  The 
language  of  this  pamphlet  is  the  usual  lan 
guage  of  begging  letters,  only  with  that 
flavour  of  smug  religiosity  and  bland  busi 
ness-like  dealing  with  matters  of  the  soul 
which  amazes  the  lay  mind. 

This  community  of,  presumably,  able- 
bodied  men  who  desire  to  reap  of  our 
worldly  things  naively  sets  forth  in  the 
following  programme  the  manner  in  which 
they  intend  to  occupy  their  time : 

5  A.M.  Rise. 

5.30  to  6.          Meditation  in  Chapel. 

154 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

6.  Morning  Prayer  and  Prime. 

6.50  to  8.  Celebrations  of  the  Holy  Eucharist. 

8.  Breakfast. 

9.30.  Terce  and  Intercessions. 

12  M.  Sext  and  None. 

12.30  P.M.  Dinner. 

I  to  1. 20.  Recreation  (in  common). 

4.45.  Evensong. 

5.15  to  5.45.  Meditation. 

6.  Supper. 

6.30  to  7.15.  Recreation  (in  common). 

8.30.  Compline. 

10.  Lights  extinguished. 

And  it  is  to  permit  them  to  spend  their 
days  in  such  fruitful  fashion  that  one  is 
called  upon  to  contribute  the  money  earned 
by  men  who  toil!  That  many  have  already 
contributed  is  to  be  inferred  from  the  fact 
that  this  community  has  become  possessed 
of  seventy-five  acres  of  valuable  land,  and 
has  spent  some  forty  thousand  dollars  on 
the  erection  of  a  monastery. 

Of  course,  there  are  worthless  idlers 
everywhere,  but  very  few  of  them  in  our 
practical  day  assume  their  indolence  as  a 
merit,  or  call  upon  their  neighbours  to  sup 
port  them,  in  the  name  of  the  deeper  senti 
ments  of  life. 

Hare,  in  "A  Pair  of  Spectacles"  remarks 
cynically,  when  asked  to  help  an  indigent 
'55 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

widow,  "Oh,  I  know  that  indigent  widow; 
she  comes  from  Sheffield."  One  knows 
these  sturdy  beggars.  They  come  from 
out  the  Middle  Ages,  when  it  was  still  felt 
that  there  was  some  special  virtue  in  aban 
doning  the  obvious  duties  of  life  to  take  up 
others  more  appealing  to  the  Saint;  more 
appealing  precisely  because  they  were  any 
thing  but  obvious. 

The  very  name  of  Saint  is  a  stench  in 
my  heretical  nostrils.  I  never  knew  or  read 
of  one  who  was  not  a  vain  egoist,  with  all 
the  cruelty,  obstinacy,  and  selfishness  of 
the  egoist.  Read  the  Lives  of  the  Saints. 
Not  one  of  these  absurd  chronicles  but  is  a 
repulsive  tale  of  an  insane  vanity  trampling 
on  the  rights  and  feelings  of  others  to 
achieve  notoriety.  St.  Louis  is  a  sample 
of  the  type:  renouncing  his  duties  to  his 
unlucky  wife,  squabbling  with  every  other 
monarch  unfortunate  enough  to  be  asso 
ciated  with  him,  and  wrecking  the  expe 
ditions  in  which  he  joined  because  of  some 
petty  qualm  about  his  meagre,  unimpor 
tant  little  soul. 

The  person  who  extorts  my  reverence 
is  not  Saint  Elizabeth,  but  that  poor  boy, 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

her  husband,  bearing  the  torments  of  her 
hysterical  squeamishness  with  such  noble 
patience  and  chivalry.  One  can  picture 
that  tired,  sleepy  young  fellow,  busy  with 
his  duties  of  government  all  day,  dragged 
out  of  his  proper  slumber  to  behold  his 
ridiculous  wife  climbing  out  of  bed  to  lie 
on  the  cold  floor  in  her  nightgown,  while 
the  attendants  stood  about  and  crossed 
themselves  in  admiration. 

St.  Theresa  seems  to  have  been  a  sort  of 
Moyen-Age  Hedda  Gabler;  no  better  than 
an  ecclesiastic  flirt.  Go  through  the  whole 
list  and  the  story  is  always  the  same.  One 
never  hears  of  a  person  with  a  sense  of 
humour  -  -  which  implies  a  sense  of  pro 
portion  —  setting  up  as  a  saint.  The  breath 
in  the  nostrils  of  these  gentry  is  the  stare  of 
the  unthinking  multitude,  who  are  awed 
by  anything  out  of  the  ordinary.  And  yet 
it  takes  so  much  finer  patience,  so  much 
greater  self-abnegation,  to  do  the  plain 
duties  of  life.  I  feel  far  more  like  crossing 
myself  when  I  look  at  the  humble  com 
muter,  who  has  sat  on  a  stool  all  day,  and 
travels  with  his  arms  full  of  parcels  to  that 
cheap,  draughty  cottage  in  the  cold  dusk 
157 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

of  Lonelyville,  to  listen  patiently  to  Emily's 
recitals  of  Johnny's  cut  finger  and  Mary 
Ann's  impudence.  It  is  upon  such  as  he 
that  civilization  and  the  world's  happi 
ness  and  sunshine  depend.  He  has  done 
a  man's  duties;  upon  him  depends  a  help 
less  woman,  and  innocent  children.  His 
tedious,  petty  drudgeries  rise  to  nobility 
compared  with  the  lives  of  these  fat  and 
lazy  grubs  with  their  complines  and  sexts 
and  primes. 

St.  Theresa  seems  vulgar  to  me  con 
trasted  with  the  anxious  Emily  cheapening 
chops  at  the  butcher's,  and  fighting  around 
the  bargain  counter  to  make  her  laborious 
commuter's  meagre  salary  stretch  over  the 
needs  of  her  family.  It  requires  a  finer  and 
sweeter,  a  more  saintly  nature  to  walk  the 
floor  patiently  with  a  teething  baby  than 
to  pose  as  a  saint  on  the  floor  to  no  one's 
benefit  but  one's  own. 

Ah,  those  humble,  lovely  souls  bearing 
the  whips  and  scorns  of  Time,  and  the 
spurns  that  patient  merit  of  the  unworthy 
takes  —  their  commonplace  daily  halos 
make  the  saints'  diadems  look  like  imita 
tion  jewels. 

158 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

JANUARY  i,  1900. 

Back  from  the  gates  of  the  City  of  Life 
there  runs  a  great  highway,  whose  beginning 
is  in  the  land  —  east  of  the  sun  and  The 
west  of  the  moon  —  where  the  Zeitgeist. 
unborn  dwell.  It  is  a  broad  and  well- 
trodden  road;  beaten  smooth  by  the  feet 
of  the  hurrying  generations  that  tread 
sharp  upon  one  another's  heels  as  they 
press  forward  out  of  grey  and  airless 
nothingness  into  the  warm  atmosphere  of 
existence. 

By  the  side  of  this  road  lies  a  chimaera, 
with  woman's  breasts  couched  upon  lion's 
paws.  It  is  the  old  direful  Questioner  of 
Thebes;  the  Propounder  of  Riddles;  the 
prodigious  Asker  of  Enigmas.  Before  en 
tering  the  gates  of  the  City  the  jostling 
multitude  must  pause  in  their  furious  haste 
towards  life  and  listen  to  her  as  she  pro 
pounds  to  each  generation  her  problem. 
Every  generation  guesses  at  the  riddle  with 
fear  or  hope,  with  timidity  or  courage,  as 
its  nature  may  be,  and  then  rushes  on  within 
the  gates,  not  knowing  if  it  has  guessed 
aright,  but  with  the  task  laid  upon  it  of 
159 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

living  out  its  life  by  the  light  of  that  answer, 
let  the  result  be  what  it  will. 

The  Sphinx  lies  watching  the  generations 
whirled  past  her  into  existence.  She  listens 
to  the  cries,  the  turmoil,  the  bitter  plaints 
of  those  within  the  walls  who  believed  that 
they  had  solved  her  problem  a  century  ago, 
and  as  she  listens  she  smiles  her  cold,  in 
credulous  smile.  Not  yet  have  they  divined 
her  secret,  if  one  may  judge  from  their  loud 
protests,  and  this  new  generation  pouring 
in  among  them  has  but  small  patience  with 
their  failure.  The  newcomers  are  quite 
sure  that  they  at  last  have  answered  the 
immortal  conundrum  correctly.  They  have 
found  it  quite  easy,  and  they  mean  to  show 
their  silly  predecessors  how  simple  it  is  to 
find  happiness  if  one  has  only  the  correct 
formula. 

All  the  preceding  guesses  have  been 
wrong  ?  —  well,  but  it  is  just  because  they 
were  wrong  that  the  application  failed. 
Here  is  the  right  one  at  last,  triumphantly 
evolved  by  the  new  heir  of  all  the  ages,  and 
it  will  be  soon  seen  how  criminally,  how 
almost  incredibly  mistaken  the  previous 
generations  have  been  in  their  foolish 
1 60 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

attempts  to  live  by  such  palpably  absurd 
theories  of  existence. 

Make  way! --you  silly  old  folk  —  make 
way  for  the  young  lords  of  life  who  come 
bearing  truth  and  wisdom  to  the  world! 
Who  come  to  inaugurate  a  reign  of  peace 
and  plenty  and  delight! 

The  old  generation,  nearing  the  City's 
lower  gate,  —  beyond  which  lies  another 
road,  equally  broad  and  well-travelled,  but 
gloomier  and  more  airless  than  the  one  by 
which  they  came,  —  shake  their  heads 
doubtingly  at  these  assertions.  They  were 
quite  as  confident  in  their  time,  and  yet, 
somehow,  things  did  not  work  out  as  they 
expected.  No  doubt  their  own  guess  was 
quite  right;  they  are  almost  sure  of  it; 
but  many  unforeseen  exigencies  interfered. 
People  were  obstinate.  The  formula  was 
perfect,  but  people  were  so  very  wrong- 
headed  that  it  never  had  a  proper  oppor 
tunity  of  proving  how  infallible  it  really 
was.  And  so  difficulties  in  the  application 
arose,  and  —  But  the  young  newcomers 
push  them,  still  babbling  and  explaining, 
out  of  the  further  gate,  and  set  at  once 
about  regenerating  the  unfortunate  city 
161 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

which  has  been  forced  to  wait  such  a 
weary  while  for  this  the  perfect  solution  of 
all  problems. 

And  the  old  Questioner  lying  without 
the  gates  stares  with  her  long,  calm  eyes 
into  the  white  mist  from  which  yet  more 
generations  are  to  come,  and  she  smiles 
her  fixed  and  scornful  smile. 

It  was  after  this  fashion  our  century, 
nineteenth  of  the  era,  came  in  —  flushed, 
happy,  confident.  It  came  an  army  with 
banners,  every  standard  blazoned  in  letters 
of  gold  with  its  magic  device  —  "Liberty 
Equality,  Fraternity." 

How  it  hustled  the  poor  painted,  formal, 
withered,  old  eighteenth  century  out  at  the 
nether  gate!  Smashing  its  idols,  toppling 
over  its  altars,  tearing  down  its  tarnished 
hangings  of  royalty  from  the  walls,  and 
bundling  its  poor  antiquated  furniture  of 
authority  out  of  windows.  All  doors  were 
flung  wide;  the  barriers  of  caste,  class,  sex, 
religion,  race,  were  burst  open  and  light 
poured  in.  The  gloomy  Ghettos  were 
emptied  of  their  silent,  stubborn,  cringing 
population;  forged  by  the  hammer  of  Chris 
tian  hate  through  two  thousand  years  into 
162 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

a  race  as  keen,  compact,  and  flexible  as 
steel.  The  slave  stood  up  free  of  bonds; 
half  exultant,  half  frightened  at  the  liberty 
that  brought  with  it  responsibilities  heavier 
and  more  inexorable  than  the  old  shackles. 
Woman  caught  her  breath  and  lifted  up 
her  arms.  The  old  superstitious  Asiatic 
curse  fixed  upon  her  by  the  church  was 
laughed  scornfully  into  nothingness.  She 
was  as  free  as  the  Roman  woman  again. 
Free  to  be  proud  of  her  sex,  free  to  wed 
where  she  chose,  free  to  claim  as  her  own 
the  child  for  whom  she  had  travailed  to 
give  life. 

A  vast  bonfire  was  made  of  the  stake, 
the  wheel,  the  gyve;  of  crowns,  of  orders, 
of  robes  of  state.  All  wrongs  were  to  be 
righted,  all  oppressions  redressed;  all  in 
equalities  levelled,  all  cruelties  forbidden. 
Men  shuddered  when  they  thought  of  the 
crimes  of  the  past,  when  they  talked  of 
Galas.  Such  a  crime  would  never  be  pos 
sible  in  this  new  golden  age.  Only  of 
oppression  and  cruelty  was  vice  bred. 
Given  perfect  liberty  and  perfect  justice 
the  warring  world  would  become  Arcadia 
once  more.  Lions  if  not  hunted,  and  if 

163 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

judiciously  trained  by  the  constant  instill 
ing  of  virtuous  maxims,  would  acquire  a 
perfect  disgust  for  mutton,  and  lambs  would 
consequently  lie  down  beside  them  and 
would  grow  as  courageous  and  self-reliant 
as  wolves. 

What  a  beautiful  time  it  was,  those  first 
thrilling  days  of  the  new  era!  How  the 
spirit  dilates  in  contemplating  it,  even  now. 
The  heart  beat  with  the  noble  new  emo 
tions,  the  cheek  flushed,  the  eyes  glistened 
with  sensibility's  ready  tear.  It  was  so 
pleasant  to  be  good,  to  be  kind,  to  be  just; 
to  feel  that  even  the  bonds  of  nationality 
were  cast  aside,  and  that  all  mankind  were 
brothers  striving  only  for  pre-eminence  in 
virtue.  It  was  a  new  chivalry,  a  new 
crusade.  Only,  instead  of  lovely  princesses 
to  be  succoured,  or  sepulchres  to  be  saved, 
it  was  the  rescue  of  all  the  humble  and 
suffering,  a  crusade  against  the  paganism 
of  the  strong.  The  heart  could  hardly  hold 
without  delicious  pain  this  broad  flood  of 
universal  kindness. 

It    was    then    that    Anarcharsis    Clootz 
presented    to    the    National   Assembly    his 
famous  "deputation  of  mankind."  .  .  . 
164 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

"On  the  iQth  evening  of  June,  1790, 
the  sun's  slant  rays  lighted  a  spectacle 
such  as  our  foolish  little  planet  has  not 
often  to  show.  Anarcharsis  Clootz  enter 
ing  the  august  Salle  de  Manege  with  the 
human  species  at  his  heels.  Swedes,  Span 
iards,  Polacks,  Turks,  Chaldeans,  Greeks, 
dwellers  in  Mesopotamia  come  to  claim 
place  in  the  grand  Federation,  having  an 
undoubted  interest  in  it.  ...  In  the  mean 
time  we  invite  them  to  the  honours  of  the 
sitting,  bonneur  de  la  seance.  A  long-flow 
ing  Turk,  for  rejoinder,  bows  with  Eastern 
solemnity,  and  utters  articulate  sounds;  but 
owing  to  his  imperfect  knowledge  of  the 
French  dialect,  his  words  are  like  spilt 
water;  the  thought  he  had  in  him  remains 
conjectural  to  this  day.  .  .  .  To  such  things 
does  the  august  National  Assembly  ever 
and  anon  cheerfully  listen,  suspending  its 
regenerative  labours." 

It  was  at  this  time  the  big  words  begin 
ning  with  capitals  made  their  appearance 
and  were  taken  very  seriously.  One  talked 
of  the  Good,  the  True,  the  Beautiful,  and 
the  Ideal,  and  felt  one's  bosom  splendidly 
inflated  by  these  capitalized  mouthfuls. 
165 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

There  were  other  nice  phrases  much  affected 
at  the  time  —  the  Parliament  of  Man,  the 
Federation  of  the  World,  la  Republique  de 
Genre  Humain.  The  new  generation  was 
intoxicated  with  its  new  theory  of  life,  with 
its  own  admirable  sentiments. 

Discrepancies  existed,  no  doubt.  The 
fine  theories  were  not  always  put  into  com 
plete  practice.  While  the  glittering  phrases 
of  the  Declaration  of  Independence  were 
declaring  all  men  free  and  equal,  some  mil 
lion  of  slaves  were  helping  to  develop  the 
new  country  with  their  enforced  labour. 
The  original  owners  of  the  soil  were  being 
mercilessly  hunted  like  vermin,  and  the 
women  of  America  had  scarcely  more  legal 
claim  to  their  property,  their  children,  or 
to  their  own  persons  than  had  the  negro 
slaves.  Nor  did  the  framers  of  the  Declara 
tion  show  any  undue  haste  in  setting  about 
abolishing  these  anomalies. 

The  National  Assembly  of  France  de 
creed  liberty,  equality,  and  fraternity  to  all 
men,  and  hurried  to  cut  off  the  heads  and 
confiscate  the  property  of  all  those  equal 
brothers  who  took  the  liberty  of  differing 
with  them. 

1 66 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

But  it  was  a  poor  nature  that  would 
boggle  at  a  few  inconsistencies,  would 
quench  this  fresh  enthusiasm  with  criticism. 
After  all,  mere  facts  were  unimportant. 
Given  the  proper  emotion,  the  lofty  senti 
ment  of  liberty  and  good-will,  the  rest 
would  come  right  of  itself. 

A  new  heaven  and  new  earth,  so  it 
seemed,  was  to  be  created  by  this  virile 
young  generation  who  had  rid  themselves 
of  the  useless  lumber  of  the  past.  The 
period  was  one  of  universal  emotion,  ex 
hibiting  itself  in  every  form:  in  iconoclastic 
rages  against  wrong  —  rages  that  could  only 
be  exhausted  by  the  destruction  of  all  the 
customs,  laws,  and  religions  that  had  bound 
the  western  world  for  two  thousand  years; 
it  showed  itself  in  sanguinary  furies  against 
oppression — furies  which  could  be  satiated 
only  by  seas  of  blood;  in  floods  of  sympathy 
for  the  weak  that  ofttimes  swept  away  both 
strong  and  weak  in  one  general  ruin.  It 
was  displayed  in  convulsions  of  philan 
thropy  so  violent  that  a  man  might  not 
refuse  the  offered  brotherhood  and  kind 
ness  save  at  the  price  of  his  life.  The  cold 
dictates  of  the  head  were  ignored.  The 
167 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

heart  was  the  only  guide.  Is  it  any  wonder 
that  driven  by  the  wind  of  feeling  and  with 
the  rudder  thrown  overboard  the  ship  pur 
sued  an  erratic  and  contradictory  course. 
Seen  in  this  way  one  is  no  longer  surprised 
at  the  lack  of  consistency  of  the  Declaration 
des  Droits  de  I'Homme,  that  declared  "All 
men  are  born  and  continue  free  and  equal 
in  rights"  —  that  "Society  is  an  association 
of  men  to  preserve  the  rights  of  man" 
that  "freedom  of  speech  is  one  of  the  most 
precious  rights,"  and  yet  that  France,  cry 
ing  aloud  these  fine  phrases,  slaughtered 
even  the  most  silent  and  humble  who  were 
supposed  to  maintain  secret  thoughts  op 
posed  to  the  opinions  of  the  majority.  It 
is  no  longer  astonishing  to  read  the  gener 
ous  sentiments  of  our  own  Declaration  and 
to  remember  the  persecutions,  confiscations, 
and  burnings  that  drove  thirty  thousand 
of  those  not  in  sympathy  with  the  Revolu 
tion  over  the  borders  of  the  New  England 
States  into  Canada,  and  hunted  a  multi 
tude  from  the  South  into  Spanish  Louisiana. 
One  is  no  longer  amazed  to  hear  de  Tocque- 
ville  declare  that  in  no  place  had  he  found 
so  little  independence  of  thought  as  in  this 
168 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

country  during  the  early  years  of  the  Re 
public.  By  liberty --his  adored  liberty  - 
the  revolutionary  sentimentalist  meant  only 
liberty  to  think  as  he  himself  did,  and  the 
whole  history  of  man  records  that  there  is 
nothing  crueller  than  a  tender  heart  ungov- 
erned  by  a  cooler  head.  It  is  in  this  same 
spirit  that  the  inquisitor,  yearning  in  noble 
anguish  over  souls,  burns  the  recalcitrant. 
It  is  plain  to  him  that  such  as  are  so  gross 
and  vicious  as  to  refuse  to  fall  in  with  his 
admirable  intentions  for  their  eternal  wel 
fare  can  be  worthy  of  nothing  gentler  than 
fire. 

But  whatever  the  discrepancies  might  be, 
the  whole  state  of  feeling  was  vastly  more 
wholesome,  more  promising,  than  the  dry 
formalism,  the  frivolous  cynicism  which  it 
had  annihilated  and  out  of  which  it  had 
been  bred.  The  delicate,  fastidious,  selfish 
formalists  of  the  eighteenth  century  were 
naturally  aghast  at  the  generation  to  which 
they  had  given  birth.  It  was  as  if  an  elderly 
dainty  cat  had  been  delivered  of  a  blunder 
ing,  slobbering,  mastiff  puppy,  a  beast  which 
was  to  tear  its  disgusted  and  terrified  parent 
in  pieces.  No  doubt  they  asked  them- 
169 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

selves  in  horror,  "When  did  we  generate 
this  wild  animal  that  sheds  ridiculous  tears 
even  while  drinking  our  blood  ? "  Not  seeing 
it  was  the  natural  child  and  natural  reaction 
from  the  selfish  short-sightedness  of  "Que 
ne  mangent  Us  de  la  brioche?"  from  the 
frigid  sneer  of  " Apres  nous  le  deluge" 

This  torrent  of  emotionalism  to  which 
the  nineteenth  century  gave  itself  up  is 
amazing  to  our  colder  time.  It  manifested 
itself  not  only  in  its  public  policy,  in  its 
schemes  for  universal  regeneration,  but  it 
completely  saturated  all  the  thought  of  the 
time,  was  visible  in  its  whole  attitude  toward 
life.  Madame  Necker  could  not  bear  the 
thought  of  her  friend  Moulton's  departure 
after  a  short  visit,  so  that  he  was  obliged 
to  leave  secretly  without  a  farewell.  She 
fainted  when  she  learned  the  truth  and 
says,  "I  gave  myself  up  to  all  the  bitter 
ness  of  grief.  The  most  gloomy  ideas 
presented  themselves  to  my  desolate  heart, 
and  torrents  of  tears  could  not  diminish 
the  weight  that  seemed  to  suffocate  me"  — 
and  all  this  about  the  departure  of  an 
amiable  old  gentleman  from  Paris  to  Ge 
neva! 

170 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

They  had  no  reserves.  The  most  se 
cret  sentiments  of  the  heart  were  openly 
discussed.  Tears  were  always  flowing. 
Nothing  was  too  sacred  for  verbal  expres 
sion.  They  wrote  out  their  prayers,  formal 
compositions  of  chaste  sentiments,  and 
handed  them  about  among  their  friends 
as  Italian  gentlemen  did  sonnets  in  the 
Quattro  Cento.  On  anniversaries  or  special 
occasion  they  penned  long  epistles  full  of 
elegant  phrases  and  invocations  to  friends 
living  under  the  same  roof,  who  received 
these  letters  next  morning  with  the  break 
fast  tray,  and  shed  delicious  tears  over  them 
into  their  chocolate. 

"A  delicate  female"  was  a  creature  so 
finely  constituted  that  the  slightest  shock 
caused  hysterics  or  a  swoon,  and  it  was 
useless  to  hope  for  her  recovery  until  the 
person  guilty  of  the  blow  to  her  sensitive 
ness  had  shed  the  salt  moisture  of  repent 
ance  upon  her  cold  and  lifeless  hand  and 
had  wildly  adjured  her  to  "live"  -after 
which  her  friends  of  the  same  sex,  them 
selves  tremulous  and  much  shaken  by  the 
mere  sight  of  such  sensibility,  "recovered 
her  with  an  exhibition  of  lavender-water" 
171 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

or  with  some  of  those  cordials  which  they 
all  carried  in  their  capacious  pockets  for 
just  such  exigencies.  Nor  did  the  delicate 
female  monopolize  all  the  delicacy  and 
emotionalism.  The  Man  of  Feeling  was 
her  fitting  mate,  and  the  manly  tear  was  as 
fluent  and  frequent  as  the  drop  in  Beauty's 
eye.  Swooning  was  not  so  much  in  his 
line;  there  was  less  competition,  perhaps, 
for  the  privilege  of  supporting  his  languish 
ing  frame,  but  a  mortal  paleness  was  no 
stranger  to  his  sensitive  countenance,  his 
features  contracted  in  agony  over  the  small 
est  annoyance,  and  he  had  an  ominous 
fashion  of  rushing  madly  from  the  presence 
of  the  fair  one  in  a  way  that  left  all  his 
female  relatives  panting  with  apprehension, 
though  long  experience  might  have  taught 
them  that  nothing  serious  ever  came  of  it. 

Thus  the  Nineteenth  Century  entered 
upon  its  experiment  with  the  verities,  be 
ginning  gloriously;  palpitating  with  gen 
erous  emotion;  ready  with  its  "blazing 
ubiquities"  to  light  the  way  to  the  millen 
nium.  The  truth  had  been  discovered,  and 
needed  but  to  be  thoroughly  applied  to 
ensure  perfect  happiness.  By  1840  the 
172 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

tide  of  democracy  and  liberalism  had  risen 
to  flood.  The  minority  were  overawed 
and  dumb.  To  suggest  doubts  of  the 
impeccable  ideals  of  democracy  was  to 
awaken  only  contempt;  as  if  one  should 
dispute  the  theory  of  gravity.  It  was  chose 
jugee.  It  did  not  admit  of  question.  The 
experiment  was  in  full  practice  and  the 
new  theory,  having  swept  away  all  oppo 
sition,  had  free  play  for  the  creation  of 
Arcadias. 

Alas!  Thus  in  the  eighteenth  period  of 
our  era  had  Authority  cleared  the  ground. 
It  had  burned,  hanged,  shut  up  in  the 
Bastille  all  cavillers,  and  just  as  the  scheme 
had  a  chance  to  work  it  crumbled  suddenly 
to  pieces  in  the  blood  and  smoke  of  revolu 
tions.  Democracy  had  no  fear  of  tragedy 
from  the  very  nature  of  its  principles,  but 
it  had  decreed  liberty,  and  liberty  began 
to  be  taken  to  doubt  its  conclusions.  There 
began  to  arise  voices  bewailing  the  flesh- 
pots  and  the  lentils  of  the  ruined  House  of 
Bondage.  Democracy  had  brought  much 
good:  that  was  not  denied,  but  alas,  what 
of  the  old  dear  things  it  had  swept  away, 
the  sweet  loyalties,  the  ties  between  server 

'73 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

and  served.  The  enormous  social  and 
political  edifice  reared  by  feudalism  had 
had  black  dungeons,  noisome  cloacae,  no 
doubt,  but  what  of  its  rich  carvings,  of  its 
dim,  tender  lights  filtered  through  flowered 
traceries  ?  Where  was  its  romance,  its 
pageants  and  revels  ?  The  rectangular, 
ugly,  wholesome  building,  which  democracy 
had  substituted  as  a  dwelling  for  the  soul 
of  man,  with  its  crude,  broad  light  flooding 
every  corner,  failed  to  satisfy  many  who 
forgot  all  the  bitter  inconvenience  of  the 
ancient  castle,  remembering  in  homesick 
longing  only  its  ruined  beauties  and  hoary 
charm. 

Science  in  its  hard  unsentimental  fashion 
commenced  to  demonstrate  the  fallacy  of 
the  heart's  ardent  reasoning.  She  stripped 
the  lovely  veil  from  nature's  face,  and 
showed  the  tender  springing  grass  of  the 
fields,  the  flushed  orchard  blossoms,  the 
nesting  bird,  the  painted  insect  floating  in 
the  breeze,  —  all,  all  engaged  in  a  ferocious 
battle  for  life  —  trampling  on  the  weak, 
snatching  the  best  food,  always  either 
devouring  or  devoured.  It  had  been  de 
creed  with  thunderous  finality  that  the 
174 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

feeble  should  be  by  law  placed  on  equality 
with  the  strong,  and  this  was  announced 
as  the  evident  intention  of  beneficent  na 
ture.  Science,  however,  relentlessly  demon 
strated  that  nature  was  not  beneficent;  that 
in  fact  she  was  a  heartless  snob,  and  that  to 
"Nature's  darling,  the  Strong,"  she  ruth 
lessly  sacrificed  multitudes  of  the  helpless. 
Democracy  had  made  itself  the  champion 
of  the  humble,  had  cursed  the  greedy  and 
powerful;  science  proved  that  the  humble 
and  unaggressive  were  doomed,  as  was 
proved  by  their  not  surviving  in  the  terrible 
struggle  for  life  that  was  raging  in  all  forms 
of  nature,  and  of  which  the  human  melee 
was  but  an  articulate  expression.  The  con 
viction  that  humanity  had  once  known 
perfect  equality,  and  that  freedom  had  been 
filched  by  the  unscrupulous,  was  shown  to 
be  quite  unfounded.  Rousseau's  Contrat 
Social  was  made  absurd  by  Darwin's  De 
scent  of  Man.  All  research  tended  to  prove 
that  from  the  earliest  Pliocene  it  was  not 
the  weak  or  the  humble,  but  he  who 

"Stole  the  steadiest  canoe, 
Eat  the  quarry  others  slew, 
Died,  and  took  the  finest  grave," 

175 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

who  had  founded  families,  developed  races, 
brought  order  out  of  chaos,  had  made 
civilizations  possible,  had  ordained  peace 
and  security,  and  had  been  the  force  of 
upward  evolution. 

It  was  thus  that  the  freedom  which  the 
heart  had  given  to  the  head  was  used  to 
prove  how  fallible  that  generous  heart  was. 

Then  out  of  all  of  this  groping  regret, 
out  of  this  new  knowledge,  there  arose,  with 
excursions  and  alarums,  Carlyle;  the  first 
who  dared  frankly  impeach  the  new  theory 
and  decry  its  results.  Through  all  his 
vociferousness,  through  all  his  droning  tau 
tology,  his  buzzing,  banging,  and  butting 
among  phrases  like  an  angry  cock-chafer, 
through  the  general  egregiousness  of  his 
intolerable  style,  there  rang  out  clear  once 
again  the  paeon  of  the  strong.  Here  was 
no  talk  of  the  rights  of  man.  His  right  as 
of  old  was  to  do  his  duty  and  walk  in  the 
fear  of  the  Lord. 

...  "A  king  or  leader  in  all  bodies  of 
men  there  must  be,"  he  says.  "Be  their 
work  what  it  may,  there  is  one  man  here 
who  by  character,  faculty,  and  position 
is  fittest  of  all  to  do  it." 
176 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

For  the  aggregate  wisdom  of  the  multi 
tude,  to  which  Democracy  pinned  its  faith, 
he  had  only  scorn. 

.  .  .  "To  find  a  Parliament  more  and 
more  the  expression  of  the  people,  could, 
unless  the  people  chanced  to  be  wise,  give 
no  satisfaction.  .  .  .  But  to  find  some  sort 
of  King  made  in  the  image  of  God,  who 
could  a  little  achieve  for  the  people,  if  not 
their  spoken  wishes  yet  their  dumb  wants, 
and  what  they  would  at  last  find  to  be  their 
instinctive  will  —  which  is  a  far  different 
matter  usually  in  this  babbling  world  of 
ours"  .  .  .  that  was  the  thing  to  be  de 
sired.  "He  who  is  to  be  my  ruler,  whose 
will  is  higher  than  my  will,  was  chosen  for 
me  by  heaven.  Neither,  except  in  obedi 
ence  to  the  heaven-chosen,  is  freedom  so 
much  as  conceivable." 

Here  was  the  old  doctrine  of  the  divine 
right  of  the  strong  man  to  rule,  come  to 
life  again,  and  masquerading  in  democratic 
garments. 

No  revolution  resulted.     Democracy  did 

not  fall  in  ruins  even  at  the  blast  of  his 

stertorous  trumpet,  but  the  serious-minded 

of  his  day  were  deeply  stirred  by  his  words, 

177 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

more  especially  as  that  comfortable  middle- 
class  prosperity  and  content,  to  which  the 
democrat  pointed  as  the  best  testimony 
to  the  virtue  of  his  doctrines,  was  being 
attacked  at  the  same  time  from  another 
quarter.  Not  only  did  Carlyle  scornfully 
declare  that  this  bourgeois  prosperity  was 
a  thing  unimportant,  almost  contemptible, 
but  the  proletariat  —  a  new  factor  in  the 
argument  —  began  to  mutter  and  growl  that 
he  had  not  been  given  his  proper  share  in 
it,  and  he  found  it  as  oppressive  and  unjust 
as  we  had  found  the  arrogant  prosperity  of 
the  nobles  intolerable. 

That  old  man  vociferous  has  passed  now 
to  where  beyond  these  voices  there  is  peace, 
but  the  obscure  mutterings  of  the  man  in 
the  street,  which  was  then  but  a  vague  un 
dertone,  has  grown  to  an  open  menace. 
The  Sphinx  smiles  as  she  hears  once  more 
the  same  cries,  the  same  accusations.  We 
of  the  middle  classes,  who  threw  off  the 
yoke  of  the  aristocracy,  clamoured  just  such 
impeachments  a  century  back.  We  are 
amazed  now  to  hear  them  turned  against 
ourselves.  To  us  this  seems  an  admirable 
world  that  we  have  made;  orderly,  peace- 
178 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

able,  prosperous.  We  find  no  fault  in  it. 
It  has  not  worked  out,  perhaps,  on  as  gen 
erous  lines  as  we  had  planned,  but  on 
the  whole  each  man  gets,  we  think,  his 
deserts. 

We  ask  ourselves  wonderingly  if  the 
aristocrat  of  the  eighteenth  century  did  not, 
perhaps,  see  his  world  in  the  same  way. 
He  paid  no  taxes,  but  he  thought  he  did 
his  just  share  of  work  for  the  body  politic; 
he  fought,  he  legislated,  he  administered. 
Perhaps  it  seemed  also  a  good  world  to 
him;  well  arranged.  Perhaps  he  was  as 
indignant  at  our  protests  as  we  are  at  those 
of  to-day.  We  thought  ourselves  intoler 
ably  oppressed  by  his  expenditures  of  the 
money  we  earned,  by  his  monopoly  of 
place  and  power;  but  we  argue  in  our  behalf, 
that  as  we  pay  the  taxes  we  should  decide 
upon  the  methods  of  the  money's  use  and 
have  all  the  consequent  privileges.  What, 
we  ask  ourselves  angrily,  do  these  mad 
creatures,  who  are  very  well  treated,  mean 
by  their  talk  of  slavery  —  of  wage-slavery  ? 
How  can  there  be  right  or  reason  in  their 
contention  that  the  labourer  rather  than 
the  capitalist  should  have  the  profit  of 
179 


THE    SECRET    LIFE 

labour  ?  Does  not  the  capitalist  govern, 
administer,  defend  ? 

Attacked,  abused,  execrated,  we  begin 
to  sympathize  with  those  dead  nobles,  who 
were  perhaps  as  honest,  as  well-meaning, 
as  we  feel  ourselves  to  be ;  who  were  as  dis 
gusted,  as  scornful,  as  little  convinced  by 
our  arguments  as  we  by  those  who  accuse 
us  in  our  turn  of  being  greedy,  idle  feeders 
upon  the  sweat  of  others.  Perhaps  to  him 
the  established  order  of  things  seemed  as 
just  and  eternal  as  it  does  to  us.  We  begin 
to  have  more  comprehension  of  that  dead 
aristocrat. 

For  a  hundred  years  now  democracy  has 
had  a  free  hand  for  testing  its  faiths  and 
ideals.  Let  us  reckon  up  the  results  of 
this  reign  of  liberty,  equality,  fraternity. 

Out  of  the  triumphant  bourgeoisie  has 
grown  a  class  proud  and  dominant  as  the 
nobles  of  old  days.  They  have  wealth, 
luxury,  and  power,  such  as  those  nobles 
never  dreamed  of.  Capital  is  organized 
into  vast,  incredibly  potent  aggregations. 
Labour  in  its  turn  has  organized  for  itself 
a  despotism  far-reaching,  unescapable, 
which  the  old  regime  would  never  at  its 
1 80 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

haughtiest  have  ventured  upon.  The  two 
are  arrayed  against  one  another  in  struggles 
of  ever-increasing  intensity. 

The  Brotherhood  of  Man  is  still  a  dream. 
The  continent  of  Europe  is  dominated  by 
two  autocratic  sovereigns,  who  overawe 
others  by  the  consistent  and  continuous 
policy  only  possible  to  a  despotism.  The 
republics  of  France  and  of  South  America 
are  the  prey  of  a  horde  of  adventurers  who 
only  alternate  despotisms;  the  armaments 
of  the  world  are  so  pretentious  that  each 
fears  to  wield  so  terrible  a  weapon.  The 
great  nations  are  dividing  the  weak  among 
themselves  as  lions  do  their  prey.  All 
nations  are  exaggerating  their  barriers  and 
differences.  Russia  is  repudiating  the 
Occidental  languages  and  civilizations  which 
she  at  first  received  so  gladly.  Hungary 
has  abandoned  the  German  tongue,  and 
the  Hungarians,  Czechs,  and  Bohemians, 
held  together  by  the  bond  of  Austria,  are 
restive  and  mutually  repellent.  The  Celt 
revives  and  renews  his  hatred  of  the  Saxon, 
and  in  Ireland  and  in  Wales  the  aboriginal 
tongues  and  literatures  are  being  disin 
terred  and  taught  as  a  means  of  destroy- 
181 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

ing  the  corporate  nationalism  of  the  British 
Isles.  The  Bretons  disclaim  their  part  and 
interest  in  France.  The  Spanish  empire 
has  fallen  into  jealous  and  unsympathetic 
fragments.  The  Hindus  are  clamouring 
for  an  India  for  the  Indians.  All  are 
rivals;  envenomed,  and  seeking  domina 
tion.  And  America,  —  America,  the  su 
preme  demonstration  of  the  democratic 
ideal,  —  what  of  her  ?  America  has  em 
barked  upon  imperial  wars:  refuses 
sanctuary  to  the  poor  and  oppressed  as 
inadmissible  paupers,  and  laughs  at  the 
claims  to  brotherhood  and  citizenship  of  any 
man  with  a  yellow  skin. 

The  church,  which  is  most  opposed  to 
individual  liberty  of  thought,  has  been 
reconquering  great  territory  in  the  very 
citadels  of  free  conscience.  One  large  body 
of  Protestants  is  repudiating  its  protests 
against  irresponsible  authority,  and  basing 
its  claims  rather  upon  appeal  to  ancient 
precedent. 

Science  has  one  by  one   torn  in  pieces 

and    scattered    the    iridescent   bubbles    of 

democracy's      sentimental      visions.      The 

Ghetto  is  open,  but  the  Jews  are  still  perse- 

182 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

cuted.  A  Galas  is  no  longer  sacrificed  to 
bigoted  churchmen,  but  an  intolerant  army 
make  possible  the  Affaire  Dreyfus.  Zola, 
after  a  century  of  democracy,  is  called  upon 
once  more  to  take  up  the  work  of  Voltaire. 
Woman  is  still  waiting  for  political  equality 
with  man.  But  perhaps  the  most  surpris 
ing  result  is  man's  change  in  his  attitude 
towards  himself.  Man,  who  spelled  him 
self  with  reverent  capital  letters,  who  pic 
tured  the  universe  created  solely  for  his 
needs, —  who  imagined  a  Deity  flattered  by 
his  homage  and  wounded  by  his  disrespect 
—  Man,  who  had  only  to  observe  a  respect 
able  code  of  morals  to  be  received  into 
eternal  happiness  with  all  the  august  hon 
ours  due  a  condescending  monarch,  had 
fallen  to  the  humility  of  such  admissions 
as  these.  .  .  . 

"What  a  monstrous  spectre  is  this  man, 
the  disease  of  the  agglutinated  dust,  lifting 
alternate  feet  or  lying  drugged  with  slumber; 
killing,  feeding,  growing,  bringing  forth 
small  copies  of  himself;  grown  upon  with 
hair  like  grass,  fitted  with  eyes  that  glitter 
in  his  face;  a  thing  to  set  children  scream 
ing;  — ...  Poor  soul  here  for  so  little, 
183 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

cast  among  so  many  hardships  filled  with 
desires,  so  incommensurate  and  so  incon 
sistent;  savagely  surrounded,  savagely  de 
scended,  irremediably  condemned  to  prey 
upon  his  fellow  lives,  .  .  .  infinitely  child 
ish,  often  admirably  valiant,  often  touch- 
ingly  kind;  sitting  down  to  debate  of  right 
or  wrong  and  the  attributes  of  the  Deity; 
rising  up  to  battle  for  an  egg  or  die  for  an 
idea.  .  .  .  To  touch  the  heart  of  his  mys 
tery  we  find  in  him  one  thought,  strange  to 
the  point  of  lunacy,  the  thought  of  duty, 
the  thought  of  something  owing  to  himself, 
to  his  neighbour,  to  his  God;  an  ideal  of 
decency  to  which  he  would  rise  if  possible, 
a  limit  of  shame,  below  which  if  it  be  pos 
sible  he  will  not  stoop.  .  .  .  Not  in  man 
alone,  but  we  trace  it  in  dogs  and  cats  which 
we  know  fairly  well,  and  doubtless  some 
similar  point  of  honour  sways  the  elephant, 
the  oyster  and  the  louse,  of  whom  we  know 
so  little" 

Alas,  Poor  Yorick!  How  a  century  of 
liberty  has  humbled  him.  It  is  thus  the 
successors  of  Rousseau,  of  Chateaubriand, 
of  the  believers  in  the  perfectibility  of  man, 
speak  —  saying,  calmly,  'The  Empire  of 
184 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

this  world  belongs  to  force "  -  and  that 
"Hitherto  in  our  judgments  of  men  we 
have  taken  for  our  masters  the  oracles  and 
poets,  and  like  them  we  have  received  for 
certain  truths  the  noble  dreams  of  our  imag 
inations  and  the  imperious  suggestions  of 
our  hearts.  We  have  bound  ourselves  by 
the  partiality  of  religious  divinations,  and 
we  have  shaped  our  doctrines  by  our  in 
stincts  and  our  vexations.  .  .  .  Science  at 
last  approaches  with  exact  and  penetrating 
implements  .  .  .  and  in  this  employment 
of  science,  in  this  conception  of  things,  there 
is  a  new  art,  a  new  morality,  a  new  polity, 
a  new  religion,  and  it  is  in  the  present  time 
our  task  to  discover  them." 

We  must  not  forget  to  consider  a  little 
the  amusing  change  our  century  has  seen 
in  the  alteration  of  its  heroic  ideals.  For 
the  sentimental  rubbish,  the  dripping  ego 
tism  of  a  Werther,  of  a  Manfred,  in  whom 
the  young  of  their  day  found  the  most 
adequate  expression  of  their  self-conscious 
ness,  we  have  substituted  the  Stevenson 
and  Kipling  hero  —  hard-headed,  silent, 
practical,  scornful  of  abstractions,  contemp 
tuous  of  emotions,  who  has  but  two  domi- 
185 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

nant  ideals,  patriotism  and  duty;  who  keeps 
his  pores  open  and  his  mouth  shut. 

The  old  democratic  shibboleths  still  re 
main  on  our  lips,  are  still  used  as  if  they 
were  truisms,  but  in  large  measure  we  have 
ceased  to  live  by  them,  we  have  lost  all  our 
cocksureness  as  to  their  infallibility.  We 
give  frightened  sops  to  our  anarchical 
Cerberus.  We  realize  that  despite  all  we 
so  proudly  decreed  the  strong  still  rule  and 
plunder  the  weak,  and  weak  still  impo- 
tently  rage  and  imagine  a  vain  thing  of 
legislation  as  a  means  of  redressing  this 
endless  inequality. 

Much  of  good  we  have  given.  How 
could  an  ideal  so  tender,  so  beautiful,  so 
high  of  purpose,  fail  of  righting  a  thousand 
wrongs  ? 

How  could  those  sweet,  foolish  tears  fail 
to  water  the  hard  soil  of  life  and  cause  a 
thousand  lovely  flowers  of  goodness  and 
gentleness  to  bloom  ?  That  we  have  not 
solved  the  riddle  of  the  Sphinx,  that  we 
have  not  found  the  secret  of  happiness,  is 
hardly  cause  for  wonder  or  shame.  Neither 
will  our  successors  find  it,  but  it  is  interest 
ing  to  speculate  as  to  what  clue  they  will 
1 86 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

use  to  guide  them  in  the  search.  It  is  plain 
that  our  ideals,  our  formulae,  are  being 
cast  aside  as  inadequate,  but  the  new  cen 
tury  is  coming  in  with  no  programme  as 
yet  announced.  It  is  thoughtful,  silent; 
it  avoids  our  drums  and  shoutings  and 
vociferous  over-confidence. 

What  will  be  its  Time-Spirit,  since  ours 
plainly  will  not  serve  ?  Will  the  wage- 
earners  shear  the  bourgeoisie  of  their  privi 
leges  as  we  shore  the  nobles  a  century  ago 
-or  will  liberty  sell  herself  to  authority 
again  in  return  for  protection  against  the 
dry  hopelessness  of  socialism,  or  the  tur 
moil  of  anarchy  ?  Or  will  the  new  genera 
tion  evolve  some  new  thought,  undreamed 
of  as  yet  —  some  new  and  happier  guess  at 
the  great  central  truth  at  which  we  forever 
grasp  and  which  forever  melts  and  eludes  ? 

FEBRUARY  n. 

In  the  midst  of  all  these  excursions  and 
alarums  of  war,  and  preparation  for  war,  a 
sudden  and  great  silence  has  fallen       The 
upon    the    everlasting    discussion       Abdica- 
of  the  relations  of  the  sexes.  Before       tion  of 
the  stern  realities  of  that  final  and 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

bloody  argument  of  Republics,  as  well  as 
of  Kings,  further  dissection  of  the  Women 
Question  has  been  deferred.  The  most 
vociferous  of  the  "unquiet  sex"  have  been 
regarding  respectfully  the  sudden  transfor 
mation  of  the  plain,  unromantic  man  who 
went  patiently  to  business  every  morning  in 
a  cable  car,  and  sat  on  a  stool  at  a  desk,  or 
weighed  tea,  or  measured  ribbon,  into  a 
hero  ready  to  face  violent  annihilations 
before  which  even  her  imagination  recoils. 
The  grim  realisms  of  life  and  death  have 
made  the  realism  of  such  erstwhile  burn 
ing  dramas  as  The  Doll  House  shrink  into 
the  triviality  of  a  drama  fit  only  for  wooden 
puppets.  Sudden  and  violent  readjust 
ments  of  ideas  are  apt  to  be  brought  about 
when  human  relations  are  jarred  into  their 
true  place  by  the  thunder  of  cannon.  War 
legitimatizes  man's  claim  to  superiority. 
When  the  sword  is  drawn  he  is  forced  to 
again  mount  that  ancient  seat  of  rule  from 
which  he  has  only  recently  been  evicted; 
or  rather  from  which  he  has  himself  stepped 
down.  The  democracy  of  sex  at  once 
becomes  ridiculous  —  the  old  feudal  rela 
tion  reasserts  itself. 

188 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

It  is  interesting  to  note  that  there  has 
not  been  one  feminine  voice  raised  to  pro 
test  against  the  situation.  The  entire  sex, 
as  represented  in  this  country,  has,  as  one 
woman,  fallen  simply  and  gladly  into  the 
old  place  of  nurse,  of  binder  of  wounds,  of 
soother  and  helpmeet.  Not  one  has  claimed 
the  woman's  equal  right  to  face  villainous 
saltpetre,  or  risk  dismemberment  by  har 
bour  mines. 

I  believe  this  to  be  because  woman  prefers 
this  old  relation.  I  believe  that  if  man  were 
willing  she  would  always  maintain  it;  that 
it  depends  upon  him  whether  she  returns 
to  it  permanently  or  not.  I  believe  that 
her  modern  attitude  is  not  of  her  own  choos 
ing  —  that  man  has  thrust  that  attitude 
upon  her.  For  the  oldest  of  all  empires 
is  that  of  man;  no  royal  house  is  so  ancient 
as  his.  The  Emperors  of  Japan  are  par 
venus  of  the  vulgarest  modernity  in  com 
parison,  and  the  claims  of  long  descent  of 
every  sovereign  in  Europe  shrivel  into 
absurdity  beside  the  magnificent  antiquity 
of  this  potentate.  Since  the  very  beginning 
of  things,  when  our  hairy  progenitor  fought 
for  mastery  with  the  megatherium,  and 
189 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

scratched  pictorial  epics  upon  his  victim's 
bones,  the  House  of  Man  has  reigned  and 
ruled,  descending  in  an  unbroken  line  from 
father  to  son  in  direct  male  descent.  His 
legitimacy  was  always  beyond  dispute;  his 
divine  right  to  rule  was  not  even  questioned, 
and  was  buttressed  against  possible  criti 
cism  not  only  by  the  universal  concurrence 
of  all  religious  and  philosophic  opinion, 
but  by  the  joyful  loyalty  of  the  whole  body 
of  his  female  subjects.  Moses  and  Zoroas 
ter,  St.  Paul  and  Plato  all  bore  witness  to 
his  supremacy,  and  the  jury  of  women 
brought  in  a  unanimous  verdict  in  his 
favour  without  calling  for  testimony. 

Women  yet  living  can  recall  a  day  when 
they  forgot  their  pain  for  joy  that  a  man- 
child  —  heir  to  that  famous  line  of  kings  — 
was  born  into  the  world.  They  can  remem 
ber  a  time  when  their  own  greatest  claim 
to  consideration  rested  upon  the  fact  that 
they  were  capable  of  perpetuating  the  royal 
race.  They  recollect  a  period  when  even 
from  his  cradle  the  boy  was  set  apart  to  be 
served  with  that  special  reverence  reserved 
for  those  whose  brows  are  bound  with  the 
sacred  circlet  of  sovereignty  —  when  a  par- 
190 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

ticular  divinity  did  hedge  even  the  meanest 
male;  a  tenfold  essence  being  shed  about 
all  those  who  were  of  the  House  of  Aaron. 

Why  then  —  since  all  this  is  of  so  recent 
existence,  since  man's  rule  was  founded 
so  deep  on  woman's  loyalty  —  has  he  been 
swelling  the  melancholy  ranks  of  Kings  in 
Exile  ?  For  that  he  has  ceased  to  reign 
over  woman  does  not  require  even  to  be 
asserted.  It  is  self-evident. 

When  was  this  amazing  revolution  ef 
fected  ?  Who  led  the  emeute  that  thrust 
man  from  his  throne  ?  It  is  a  revolt  with 
out  a  history;  without  the  record  of  a  single 
battle.  Not  even  a  barricade  can  be  set 
up  to  its  credit,  and  yet  no  more  important 
revolution  can  be  found  in  the  pages  of  the 
oldest  chronicles.  So  venerable,  so  deep- 
rooted  in  the  eternal  verities  seemed  the 
authority  of  man  over  woman  that  the 
female  mind,  until  the  present  day,  never 
doubted  its  inevitableness.  Indeed,  as  is 
the  case  with  all  loyal  natures,  she  was  jeal 
ous  for  the  absolutism  of  her  master,  and 
was  quick  to  repair  any  such  small  omissions 
as  he  himself  might  have  made  in  the  com 
pleteness  of  his  domination.  All  of  her 
191 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

sex  were  trained  from  their  earliest  infancy 
to  strive  for  but  one  end  —  to  make  them 
selves  pleasing  to  their  rulers.  Success  in  the 
court  of  man  was  the  end  and  aim  of  their 
existence,  the  only  path  for  their  ambition, 
and  no  other  courtiers  ever  rivalled  these  in 
the  subtle  completeness  of  their  flattery. 
Man's  despotism,  of  course,  like  all  other 
tyrannies,  was  tempered  by  his  weaknesses, 
but  while  woman  wheedled  and  flattered 
and  secretly  bent  him  to  her  projects  she 
did  not  question  his  real  right  to  govern. 

Here  and  there  through  the  past  there 
arose  a  few  scattered  pioneers  in  recalci 
trance.  One  of  the  first  to  deny  the  innate 
supremacy  of  the  male  was  a  woman  who 
herself  wore  a  crown.  Elizabeth  Tudor 
had  a  fashion  of  laying  heavy  hands  upon 
her  rightful  lords  whenever  they  displeased 
her,  and  she  appears  to  have  rejected  the 
whole  theory  of  feminine  subordination. 
John  Knox  —  strong  in  the  power  of  the 
priest,  whose  sublimated  prerogatives  man 
had  skilfully  retained  in  his  own  hands  — 
could  and  did  dominate  Mary  Stuart  even 
upon  the  throne,  but  when  he  blew  from 
Geneva  his  "First  Blast  of  the  Trumpet 
192 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

Against  the  Monstrous  Regiment  of  Wo 
man,"  and  called  all  the  ages  to  witness  that 
the  rule  of  a  female  was  an  affront  to  nature 
that  trenchant  lady  who  held  the  English 
sceptre  forbade  him  ever  again  to  set  foot 
in  her  domains,  and  before  he  could  do  so, 
in  his  need,  he  had  to  digest  a  most  unwhole 
some  dose  of  humble  pie. 

Elizabeth,  however,  was  a  unique  per 
sonality  and  had  few  imitators.  The  litera 
ture  of  her  day  abounds  with  expressions 
of  supreme  humility  and  loyalty  from  the 
one  sex  to  the  other.  Elizabethan  poets 
deigned  to  play  at  captivity  and  subjection 
to  the  overwhelming  charms  of  Saccharissa 
and  her  sisters,  and  turned  pretty  phrases 
about  her  cruelty,  but  this  was  merely 
poetic  license  of  expression.  All  serious, 
unaffected  expression  of  conviction,  such 
as  was  to  be  found  in  the  religious  writings 
of  the  time,  and  in  the  voluminous  private 
correspondence,  which  gives  us  the  most 
accurate  description  obtainable  of  the  real 
actions  and  opinions  of  our  ancestors,  never 
suggested  a  doubt  of  man's  natural  and 
inalienable  superiority,  mental,  moral,  and 
physical.  So  undisturbed  was  this  con- 
193 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

viction,  down  almost  to  our  own  day,  that 
the  heresy  of  Mary  Wollstonecraft  gave  the 
severest  of  shocks  to  her  own  generation. 
So  heinous  seemed  her  offence  of  lese-majeste 
in  questioning  man's  divine  right  that  one 
of  the  most  famous  of  her  contemporaries 
did  not  hesitate  to  stigmatize  her  as  "a 
hyena  in  petticoats." 

History  gives  us  but  one  record  of  a  gen 
eral  outbreak.  In  the  thirteenth  century 
the  Crusades  had  so  drained  Europe  of  its 
able-bodied  men  that  the  women  were 
forced  to  apply  themselves  to  the  abandoned 
trades  and  neglected  professions.  They 
shortly  became  so  intoxicated  by  the  sense 
of  their  own  competency  and  power  that 
when  the  weary  wearers  of  the  cross  re 
turned  from  the  East  they  were  at  first 
delighted  to  discover  that  their  affairs  were 
prospering  almost  as  well  as  ever,  and  then 
amazed  and  disgusted  to  find  the  women 
reluctant  to  yield  up  to  their  natural  rulers 
these  usurped  privileges.  Stern  measures 
were  necessary  to  oust  them.  Severe  laws 
were  enacted  against  the  admission  of 
women  into  the  Guilds — the  labour  organi 
zations  which  at  that  period  governed  all 
194 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

the  avenues  of  industrial  advancement;  and 
the  doors  of  the  professions  were  peremp 
torily  slammed  in  the  women's  faces.  Such 
episodes  as  these,  however,  were  detached 
and  accidental.  Female  treason  never  dared 
unrebuked  to  lift  its  horrid  head  until 
within  the  present  generation. 

The  emancipated  new  woman  has  vari 
ous  methods  of  accounting  for  the  hum 
bling  of  this  hoary  sovereignty.  Some 
find  it  only  a  natural  concomitant  of  the 
general  wreck  of  thrones  and  monarchical 
privilege  —  in  other  words,  that  it  is  but 
one  phase  of  advancing  democracy.  By 
some  it  is  supposed  that  in  this  Age  of 
Interrogation  man's  supremacy,  along  with 
all  other  institutions,  has  been  called  upon 
to  produce  an  adequate  reason  for  being, 
and  producing  no  answer  that  seems  satis 
factory,  he  has  been  summarily  forced  to 
abandon  pretensions  which  rested  merely 
upon  use  and  wont.  It  is  said  by  some 
that  woman  has  been  examining  with  coldly 
unprejudiced  eye  the  claim  of  man  to  rule, 
has  been  measuring  his  powers  against  her 
own  and  has  not  been  daunted  by  the  com 
parison.  The  more  noisy  declare  that  she 

"95 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

has  stripped  him  of  his  royal  robe  and  that, 
like  Louis  XIV.,  minus  his  high  heels  and 
towering  peruke,  she  finds  him  only  of 
medium  stature  after  all;  that  she  has 
turned  the  rays  of  a  cynical  democracy  upon 
the  mystery  encompassing  his  Kingship  and 
refuses  to  be  awed  by  what  she  sees  there; 
that  it  is  because  of  this  she  begins  to  usurp 
his  privileges,  thrust  herself  into  his  profes 
sions,  shoulder  him  even  from  the  altar,  and 
brazenly  seating  herself  on  the  throne  beside 
him  she  lifts  the  circlet  from  his  brows  to  try 
if  it  be  not  a  fit  for  her  own  head. 

The  weakness  of  all  such  explanations  is 
that  they  do  not  take  into  account  the  fact 
that  woman  is  not  by  nature  democratic. 
Whatever  political  principles  the  occasional 
or  exceptional  woman  may  profess,  the 
average  woman  is  in  all  her  predilections 
intensely  aristocratic;  —  is  by  nature  loyal, 
idealistic,  an  idolater  and  a  hero  worshipper. 
Strong  as  the  spirit  of  democracy  may  be, 
it  could  not  by  itself  alone  in  one  generation 
change  the  nature  of  woman.  The  expla 
nation  must  lie  elsewhere. 

In  the  language  of  a  now  famous  arraign 
ment  -    ''J 'accuse"  man  himself. 
196 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

No  ruler  is  ever  really  dethroned  by  his 
subjects.  No  hand  but  his  own  ever  takes 
the  crown  from  his  head.  No  agency  but 
his  can  wash  the  chrism  from  his  brow.  It 
is  his  own  abdication  that  drives  him  from 
power  —  abdication  of  his  duties,  his  obli 
gations,  his  opportunities.  Ceasing  to  rule, 
he  ceases  to  reign.  When  he  ceases  to  lead 
he  wants  for  followers,  and  the  revolt  which 
casts  him  from  power  is  only  the  outward 
manifestation  of  his  previous  abdication  of 
the  inward  and  spiritual  grace  of  kingship. 
When  man  ceased  to  govern,  woman  was 
not  long  in  throwing  off  the  sham  of  sub 
jection  that  remained. 

Like  other  subjects,  woman  required  of 
her  master  two  things  --  panem  et  circenses, 
—  bread  and  circuses.  When  the  indus 
trial  changes  brought  about  by  the  intro 
duction  of  machinery  put  an  end  to  the  old 
patriarchal  system  of  home  manufactures, 
man  found  it  less  easy  to  provide  for  his 
woman-kind  —  more  especially  his  collat 
eral  woman-kind  —  and  without  any  very 
manifest  reluctance  he  turned  her  out  into 
the  world  to  shift  for  herself.  Here  was 
a  shock  to  her  faith  and  loyalty!  The  all- 
197 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

powerful  male  admitted  his  inability  to  pro 
vide  for  these  sisters,  cousins,  aunts,  and 
more  distant  kin  who  had  looked  up  to  him 
as  the  fount  of  existence,  and  had  toiled 
and  fed  contentedly  under  his  roof,  yielding 
to  him  obedience  as  the  natural  provider 
and  master.  Woman  went  away  sorrowful 
and  —  very  thoughtful. 

This  alone  was  not  enough  to  quite 
alienate  her  faith,  however.  Woman  was 
still,  as  always,  a  creature  of  imagination  — 
dazzled  by  colour,  by  pomp,  by  fanfaronade. 
She  was  still  a  creature  of  romance,  ador 
ing  the  picturesque,  yielding  her  heart  to 
courage,  to  power,  to  daring  and  endurance 
—  all  the  sterner  virtues  which  she  herself 
lacked.  The  man  of  the  past  was  often 
brutal  to  her  —  overbearing  always,  cruel 
at  times,  but  he  fascinated  her  by  his  master 
fulness  and  his  splendour.  She  might  go  fine, 
but  he  would  still  be  the  finer  bird.  When 
she  thought  of  him  she  was  hypnotized  by 
a  memory  of  gold,  a  waving  of  purple,  a 
glitter  of  steel,  a  flutter  of  scarlet.  He 
knew  that  this  admiration  of  hers  for  beauty 
and  colour  was  as  old  as  the  world.  From 
primordial  periods  the  male  has  recognized 
198 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

this  need  of  the  female.  The  fish  in  the 
sea,  the  reptile  in  the  dust,  the  bird  in  the 
forest,  the  wild  beast  in  the  jungle  are  all 
aware  of  their  mates'  passion  for  gleaming 
scales,  for  glowing  plumes,  for  dappled 
hides  and  orgulous  crests  of  hair.  They 
know,  they  have  always  known,  that  no 
king  can  reign  without  splendour.  Only 
man,  bent  solely  upon  his  own  comfort  and, 
it  would  seem,  upon  the  abandonment  of 
his  power,  deliberately  sets  himself  against 
this  need  of  the  female,  which  has  become 
imbedded  in  her  nature  through  every  suc 
cessive  step  up  in  the  scale  of  evolution.  He 
alone  fatuously  prides  himself  on  the  dark, 
bifurcated  simplicity  of  his  attire,  intended 
only  for  warmth  and  ease  and  constructed 
with  a  calculated  avoidance  of  adornment. 
To  avoid  criticism  he  has  set  up  a  theory 
that  a  superior  sort  of  masculinity  is  demon 
strated  by  the  dark  tint  and  unbeautiful 
shape  of  garments  (as  if  the  fighting  man, 
the  soldier  —  who  is  nothing  if  not  mascu 
line — were  not  always  a  colourful  creature) ; 
and  chooses  to  ignore  or  resent  woman's 
weakness  for  this  same  gold-laced  comba 
tant,  and  for  the  silken,  picturesque  actor. 
199 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

''J' accuse"  the  man  of  abandoning  his 
mastership  and  becoming  a  bourgeois  in 
appearance  and  manner  through  a  slothful 
desire  for  ease.  There  can  hardly  be  a 
question  that  Louis  le  Grand's  red  heels 
and  majestic  peruke  were  uncomfortable 
and  a  bore,  but  his  sense  of  humour  and 
his  knowledge  of  men  were  such  that  his 
bed  curtains  were  never  untucked  until  his 
lion's  mane  had  been  passed  in  to  him  on 
the  end  of  a  walking  stick,  and  was  safely 
in  its  place.  He  could  imagine  how  unim- 
posing  the  King  of  Beasts  might  be  in 
neglige.  He  knew  that  to  be  reverenced 
one  must  be  imposing.  Louis  the  Unfor 
tunate  found  it  far  less  tedious  to  abandon 
stateliness,  and  work  wigless  and  leather- 
aproned  at  his  locksmith's  forge,  while  his 
feather-headed  queen  played  at  being  a 
dairy-maid  at  Trianon,  forgetting  that  the 
populace,  which  had  submitted  humbly  to 
the  bitter  exactions  of  the  man  who  dazzled 
them,  seeing  the  bald  head  and  leathern 
apron  would  get  abruptly  up  from  its  knees 
and  say:  "What!  submit  to  the  pretensions 
of  a  locksmith  and  a  dairy-maid  —  com 
mon  folk  like  ourselves  —  certainly  not!" 
200 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

and  proceed  to  carry  their  sovereign's  sug 
gestion  of  equality  to  the  distressingly  logical 
conclusion  to  be  found  at  the  mouth  of  the 
guillotine. 

''J'accuse"  man  of  carrying  further  this 
democracy  of  sex  by  adding  rigid  plainness 
of  behaviour  to  ugliness  of  appearance,  for 
getting  that  a  woman,  like  the  child  and  the 
savage,  love  pomp  of  manner  as  well  as  of 
garment,  and  that  what  she  does  not  see  she 
finds  it  hard  to  believe.  Every  wise  lover 
soon  learns  it  is  necessary  to  reinforce  the 
tenderness  of  his  manner  by  definite  assur 
ances  of  affection  several  times  in  every 
twenty-four  hours.  Then,  and  then  only, 
is  a  woman  sure  she  is  loved. 

How  can  she  believe  man  heroic  unless 
he  use  the  appearance  and  manner  of  the 
hero  ? 

Sir  Hilary  of  Agincourt,  returning  from 
France,  found  his  lady  from  home,  and  he 
and  all  his  weary  men-at-arms  sat  there  - 
mailed  cap-a-pie  —  throughout  the  entire 
night  until  she  returned  to  welcome  them 
home  and  receive  their  homage.  What 
if  at  other  times  Sir  Hilary  may  have  been 
something  of  a  brute  ?  Lady  Hilary,  flat- 
201 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

tered  by  this  fine  piece  of  steel-clad  swagger, 
would,  remembering  it,  forgive  a  thousand 
failures  of  temper  or  courtesy. 

When  El  Ahmed  held  the  pass  all  through 
the  darkness  while  his  women  fled  across 
the  desert,  and  his  foes  feared  to  come  to  hand 
grips  with  him,  not  knowing  he  stood  there 
dead,  —  propped  against  the  spear  he  had 
thrust  into  his  mortal  wound  to  hold  him 
self  erect  —  there  was  no  female  revolt 
against  the  domination  of  men  who  were 
capable  of  deeds  that  so  fired  women's 
imaginations. 

These  may,  after  all,  seem  to  be  frivolous 
accusations  —  that  men  do  not  dress  well; 
do  not  behave  dramatically;  but  the  signifi 
cation  of  these  seemingly  capricious  charges 
lies  deeper  than  may  appear.  Man  has 
been  seized  with  a  democratic  ideal,  and 
after  applying  it  to  political  institutions  has 
attempted  to  carry  it  into  domestic  applica 
tion.  He  is  relentlessly  forcing  a  democ 
racy  of  sex  upon  woman;  industrially, 
mentally,  and  sentimentally.  He  refuses 
to  gratify  her  imagination;  he  insists  upon 
her  development  of  that  logical  selfishness 
which  underlies  all  democracy,  and  which 
202 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

is  foreign  to  her  nature.  Now,  nature  has 
inexorably  laid  upon  woman  a  certain  share 
of  the  work  that  must  be  done  in  the  world. 
In  the  course  of  ages  humanity  adjusted 
itself  to  its  shared  labours  by  developing 
the  relation  of  master  and  defender,  of 
dependent  and  loyal  vassal.  Sentiment  had 
adorned  it  with  a  thousand  graces  and 
robbed  the  feudal  relation  of  most  of  its 
hardships.  Mutual  responsibilities  and 
mutual  duties  were  cheerfully  accepted. 

Woman  was  obliged  to  perform  certain 
duties,  and  these  could  only  be  made  easy 
and  agreeable  by  sentiment,  by  unselfish 
ness.  Man  needed  her  ministrations  as 
much  as  she  needed  his.  He  realized  that 
sentiment  was  necessary  to  her  happiness 
and  he  accepted  the  duty  of  preserving 
that  sentiment  of  loyalty  and  admiration 
for  himself  which  made  her  hard  tasks 
seem  easy  when  performed  for  a  beloved 
master.  He  took  upon  himself  that  diffi 
cult  task  of  being  a  hero  to  a  person  even 
more  intimate  than  his  valet.  He  took  the 
trouble  to  please  woman's  imagination. 

The  hard  democracy  of  to-day  will  take 
no  note  of  the  relation  of  master  and  de- 
203 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

pendent.  Each  individual  has  all  the  rights 
which  do  not  come  violently  in  contact  with 
other's  rights,  and  has  no  duties  which  are 
not  regulated  by  the  law.  Unselfishness  is 
not  contemplated  in  its  scheme.  Every 
individual  has  a  right  to  all  the  goods  of 
life  he  can  get. 

Women  are  beginning  to  accept  these 
stern  theories;  beginning  to  apply  the  cruel 
logic  of  individualism.  So  far  from  the 
power  to  win  his  favour  being  her  one  hope 
of  advancement  or  success,  she  does  not 
hesitate  to  say  on  occasion  that  to  yield  to 
his  affections  is  likely  to  hamper  her  in  the 
race  for  fame  or  achievement.  So  far  from 
the  giving  of  an  heir  to  his  greatness  being 
the  highest  possibility  of  her  existence,  she 
sometimes  complains  that  such  duties  are 
an  unfair  demand  upon  her  energies,  which 
she  wishes  to  devote  exclusively  to  her  own 
ends. 

The  universal  unpopularity  of  domestic 
service  proves  that  the  duties  of  a  woman 
are  in  themselves  neither  agreeable  nor 
interesting.  Where  is  the  man  in  all  the 
world  who  would  exchange  even  the  most 
laborious  of  his  occupations  for  his  wife's 
204 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

daily  existence  ?  The  only  considerations 
that  can  permanently  reconcile  human  be 
ings  to  unattractive  labours  is  first  the  senti 
ment  of  loyalty — that  such  labours  are  per 
formed  for  one  who  is  loved  and  admired  — 
and  second  the  fine,  noble  old  habit  of  sub 
mission.  These  incentives  to  duty,  these  helps 
to  happiness,  man  has  taken  from  woman  by 
weakly  shuffling  off  his  mastership. 

I  accuse  man  of  having  wilfully  cast 
from  him  the  noblest  crown  in  the  world  — 
of  having  wrongfully  abdicated.  War  has 
at  least  this  merit  that  it  forces  him  to  drop 
the  vulgar  careless  ease  of  the  bourgeois  and 
resume  for  the  time  at  least  those  bold  and 
vigorous  virtues  which  made  him  woman's 
hero  and  her  cheerfully  accepted  master. 

JUNE  13.  Life- 

It  is  a  toy:  a  jingling  bauble  gay, 

That  children  grasp  with  wondering,  wide-eyed  pleasure; 
Soil  it  with  too  fierce  use,  and  find  their  treasure 
But  rags  and  tinsel,  which  at  close  of  day 
Falls  from  their  weary  hands.     It  is  a  page 
Whereon  the  child  scribbles  unmeaning  scrawls. 
Youth's  glowing  pen  indites  sweet  madrigals. 
Man  tells  a  history,  and  sad  old  age  — 
Seeing  that  all  the  space  that  he  hath  writ  before 
But  wrote  in  varying  ways  his  folly  large  — 
Sets  "Vanity"  upon  the  meagre  marge. 
And  last  Time  prints  "The  End"  and  turns  it  o'er. 

205 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

JULY  2. 

The  Chinese  pinks  are  in  full  bloom  now. 
I  have  gathered  pounds  of  them  and 
Portable  arranged  them  in  vases,  and  the 
Property.  mere  outline  of  their  feathery  grey- 
green  foliage,  set  with  those  fringed  flecks 
of  warm  colour,  makes  existence  seem  an 
agreeable  thing.  The  sound  of  children's 
voices  outside,  the  smell  of  the  cut  grass, 
and  the  blue  of  the  day,  all  seemed  freshly 
sweet  and  pleasant  because  of  the  pleasure 
the  freaked  beauty  of  the  bowls  full  of  pinks 
give  me.  I  am  sorry  for  the  people  who 
don't  care  for  flowers.  The  amiability  they 
always  awake  in  me  is  one  of  my  most 
valued  bits  of  secret  property.  That  is  the 
kind  of  possession  that  moth  and  rust  can 
not  corrupt.  It  is  safe  from  burglars,  and 
even  age  does  not  wither  one's  satisfaction 
in  such  belongings.  Most  of  my  life  I  have 
been  poor,  as  the  world  reckons  poverty, 
but  in  reality  I  have  owned  more  than  many 
millionaires. 

It  seems  to  me  a  wise  thing  to  store  up 
private  wealth  early.  My  nose  to  me  a 
kingdom  is,  and  emperors  and  any  million- 
206 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

aire  might  envy  me  the  possession  of  my 
ears  and  eyes.  There  are  pale-souled  phi 
losophers  who  declare  their  contempt  for 
the  power  of  gold,  and  some  narrow  dull- 
witted  folk  are  really  oppressed  by  luxury  — 
all  of  which  seems  nonsense  to  me;  but  if 
one  can't  and  most  of  us  can't,  have  high 
stepping  horses,  good  frocks,  paid  service, 
and  expensive  homes,  one  can  at  least  own 
tangible  treasures  of  smells  and  sights  and 
sounds.  And,  ah!  the  odd  bits  of  poetry  I 
possess.  .  .  . 

Now  rising  through  the  rosy  wine  of  thought 
Bright-beaded  memories  sparkle  at  the  brim 

Of  the  mind's  chalice.     Golden  phrases  wrought 
By  the  great  poets  bubble  to  its  brim. 

My  poets  —  as  the  patterned  skies  are  mine, 

The  perfumes  and  the  murmurs  of  the  sea 
Are  all  mine  own  — their  cadences  divine 

Seem  as  my  goodly  heritage  to  me. 

They  trace  the  measures  of  all  hidden  things, 

And  into  worded  magic  can  translate 
The  hidden  harmonies  which  Nature  sings; 

Her  mighty  music  inarticulate. 

And  who  will  list  hears  sonorous  vibrations 

As  though   their  thoughts   strung  harps   from  earth  to 

heaven 
That  rung  with  golden,  glad  reverberations 

As  wide-winged  dreams  breathed  through  their  strings 
at  even. 

207 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

JULY  10. 

P overwhelmed    us    last    night    at 

Are  dinner  by  declaring  that  Ameri- 

American    can     parents    were     selfish.     We 
Parents       dropped  our  fish-forks  and  stared 

Selfish?  .V      .  ... 

at  him  in  amazement  and  disgust. 

H—  said,  severely,  ''You  are  a  for 
eigner."  P couldn't  truthfully  deny 

it,  and  the  bare  statement  seemed  sufficient, 

but  H likes  to  clinch  any  nail  he  drives 

and  he  went  on : 

"It  is  admitted  by  every  unprejudiced 
person  —  excepting,  of  course,  the  ignorant 
and  benighted  foreigner  —  that  the  Ameri 
cans  are  the  people,  and  that  wisdom  and 
virtue  will  necessarily  die  with  them;  that 
all  their  customs  and  institutions,  whether 
social  or  political,  are  the  wonder,  the  envy, 
and  despair  of  other  nations,  which  makes 
an  assertion  like  yours  seem  almost  frivo 
lous." 

"Selfish!"  I  struck  in,  "selfish —  indeed! 
on  the  contrary,  the  American  is  blamed 
as  the  most  indulgent  of  parents.  Surely 
selfishness  is  the  last  charge  that  can  justly 
be  made." 

208 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

P tried  to  defend  himself.  He  ad 
mitted  that  "if  indulgence  invariably  im 
plied  unselfishness  the  American  would 
certainly  have  nothing  with  which  to  re 
proach  himself  in  his  relations  with  his 
children." 

We  fought  the  question  over  until  late, 
and  this  is  about  what  our  discussion  came 
to.  There  can  be  no  doubt  that  a  fond 
gentleness  of  rule  is  in  this  country,  the  law 
of  the  average  household.  So  far  as  is  com 
patible  with  common  sense,  the  children 
have  entire  liberty  of  action,  and,  so  far  as 
the  means  of  the  parents  permit,  the  chil 
dren  are  provided  with  every  advantage  and 
pleasure.  Indeed,  to  such  lengths  at  one 
time  did  fondness  go  that  it  too  often  degen 
erated  into  a  laxness  that  made  the  Ameri 
can  child  a  lesson  and  a  warning  to  other 
nations.  Daisy  Miller  and  her  little,  odious 
toothless  brother  were  supposed  to  typify 
the  results  of  this  fatuous  feebleness  of  rule 
in  our  family  life,  but  neither  Daisy  nor  her 
brother  can  now  be  held  to  be  typical  pic 
tures,  though  their  prototypes  still  exist 
here  and  there.  The  American  parent  of 
to-day  rules  more  firmly  and  with  greater 
209 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

wisdom.  Such  figures  as  those  of  the  un 
happy  girl  and  the  odious  boy  brought 
home  to  us  the  truth  —  forgotten  in  our 
passion  for  universal  liberty  —  that  a  relax 
ation  of  wise,  strong  government  by  the 
parent  was  cruelty  of  the  most  far-reaching 
and  irreparable  sort. 

No  doubt  Henry  James'  mordant  satire 
helped  to  inaugurate  a  salutary  reform, 
and  it  is  just  possible  that  a  new  work  of  a 
similar  nature  is  now  needed  to  suggest 
further  serious  reflections  to  American  pa 
rents;  to  rouse  them  to  consider  whether 
their  whole  duty  is  performed  in  seeing 
their  children  well  fed,  well  educated,  and 
raised  to  man's  estate.  With  most  parents 
the  sense  of  responsibility  ceases  when  the 
boy  begins  to  earn  his  own  living,  when  the 
girl  dons  orange  blossoms.  Like  the  birds, 
the  American  parent  works  hard  to  feed 
the  nestlings,  carefully  teaches  them  to  fly, 
and  then  tumbles  them  out  into  the  world 
to  fend  for  themselves.  So  far  in  our  his 
tory  this  elemental  method  has  worked 
well,  no  doubt.  The  result  of  it  has  been 
to  breed  the  most  precocious,  self-reliant, 
vigorous,  irreverent  race  the  earth  has  yet 
210 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

seen.  One  may  see  the  whole  situation 
epitomized  in  the  orchard  any  pleasant  June 
day  —  an  astonished  fledgling  ruffling  his 
feathers  upon  some  retired  bough,  ruminat 
ing  upon  the  sudden  shocks  and  changes  of 
existence,  and  afraid  almost  to  turn  his  head 
in  the  large,  new,  lonesome  world  surround 
ing  him.  As  the  hours  pass  his  melancholy 
reflections  are  pierced  by  hunger's  pangs. 
Heretofore,  a  busy  parent  has  always  ap 
peared  to  assuage  such  poignant  sensations, 
but  now  that  hard-worked  person  may  be 
seen  —  genially  oblivious  of  obligations  — 
refreshing  himself  with  cherries,  and  the 
fledgling,  with  a  squawk  of  wounded  amaze 
ment,  discovers  for  the  first  time  that  even 
parents  are  not  to  be  depended  upon.  His 
hunger  meantime  grows.  An  opportune  in 
sect  flits  by  and  is  snapped  at  involuntarily. 
It  proves  to  be  of  refreshing  and  sustaining 
quality,  and  digestion  brings  courage.  A 
hop  and  a  flutter  show  the  usefulness  of  wing 
and  limb.  More  luck  with  insects  demon 
strates  that  the  world  belongs  to  the  bold, 
and  before  the  day  is  done  the  cocky  young 
nestling  of  yesterday  is  shouldering  his  papa 
away  from  the  ripest  cherries. 
211 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

All  this  is  very  well  in  a  world  where 
flies  and  cherries  are  free  to  all,  but  America 
is  fast  ceasing  to  be  a  happy  uncrowded 
orchard  in  which  the  young  find  more  than 
enough  room  and  food  for  the  taking. 

In  the  past,  the  boy  —  inured  to  plain 
living  and  a  certain  amount  of  labour  from 
childhood  —  had  only  to  take  the  girl  of 
his  choice  by  the  hand  and  go  make  a  home 
out  of  virgin  soil,  wheresoever  chance  or 
fancy  led,  himself  and  his  parents  both  con 
fident  he  could  not  suffer  in  a  land  where 
only  industry  was  needed  to  ensure  conquest. 
These  boundless  possibilities  relieved  the 
parent  of  half  the  cares  incident  to  the 
relation,  and  that  sense  of  freedom  from 
responsibility  has  remained,  while  con 
ditions  have  altered.  The  bird-like  fashion 
of  refusing  further  liability  once  the  child 
has  made  his  first  flight  is  still  the  rule. 

To  the  European  parent  this  seems  a  most 
flagrant  abandonment  of  duty.  There  the 
anxious  care  for  the  offspring  reaches  out 
to  the  third  and  fourth  generation,  and  every 
safeguard  which  law  or  custom  can  devise 
is  thrown  around  the  child.  From  the 
moment  of  its  birth  the  parent  of  Conti- 
212 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

nental  Europe  begins  to  save,  not  only  for 
the  education  and  upbringing,  but  for  the 
whole  future  existence  of  the  child.  It  is 
not  alone  the  daughter  who  is  dowered, 
but  the  son  also  has  provision  made  for 
his  married  life,  when,  as  his  parents  keenly 
realize,  the  greatest  strain  will  be  made 
upon  his  resources  and  capabilities. 

In  America  it  is  the  custom  —  very 
nearly  the  universal  custom  —  for  the  pa 
rents  to  spend  upon  the  luxuries  and  pleas 
ures  of  the  family  life  the  whole  income. 
The  children  are  educated  according  to  this 
standard  of  expenditure,  and  are  accus 
tomed  to  all  its  privileges.  No  thought  is 
taken  of  the  time  when  they  must  set  up 
households  for  themselves  —  almost  invari 
ably  upon  a  very  different  scale  from  the 
one  to  which  they  have  been  used.  To  the 
American  parent  this  seems  only  a  natural 
downfall.  He  remarks  cheerfully  that  he 
himself  began  in  a  small  way,  and  it  will 
do  the  young  people  no  harm  to  acquire  a 
similar  experience  —  forgetting  that  in  most 
cases  the  children  have  been  educated  to 
a  much  higher  standard  of  ease  than  that 
of  his  own  early  life.  The  parents  do  not 
213 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

consider  it  obligatory  to  leave  anything  to 
their  children  at  death.  They  have  used 
all  they  could  accumulate  during  their  own 
lifetime;  let  their  children  do  the  same. 
The  results  of  the  system  are  crystallized 
in  the  American  saying:  "There  are  but 
three  generations  from  shirt  sleeves  to  shirt 
sleeves."  The  man  who  acquires  wealth 
spends  what  he  makes.  His  children, 
brought  up  in  luxury,  struggle  unsuccess 
fully  against  conditions  to  which  they  are 
unused,  and  the  grand-children  begin  in 
their  shirt  sleeves  to  toil  for  the  wealth 
dissipated  by  the  two  preceding  genera 
tions. 

Europeans  frequently  and  curiously  re 
mark  upon  the  American's  prodigality  of 
ready  money.  The  small  change  which 
they  part  with  so  reluctantly  the  American 
flings  about  with  a  fine  mediaeval  profusion. 
The  manner  of  life  of  the  average  well-to-do 
person  in  this  country  permits  of  it.  The 
average  man  who  earns  ten  or  twenty 
thousand  a  year  invests  none  of  it.  He 
installs  his  family  in  a  rented  house  in  the 
city  in  winter.  Several  servants  are  kept; 
the  children  are  sent  to  expensive  schools. 
214 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

All  the  family  dress  well,  eat  rich  food,  and 
indulge  in  costly  amusements.  In  summer 
they  either  travel  abroad,  live  in  a  hotel  at 
a  watering  place,  or  rent  again.  The  man's 
whole  income  is  at  his  disposal  to  spend 
every  year.  None  of  it  is  deducted  to  be 
safely  stored  in  property.  When  his  daugh 
ters  marry  he  expects  their  husbands  to  be 
solely  responsible  for  their  future,  and  if 
they  do  not  succeed  in  marrying  wealth, 
why  so  much  the  worse  for  them.  When 
his  sons  begin  their  career  he  looks  to  them 
to  be  self-supporting  almost  from  the  first, 
and  not  to  undertake  the  responsibilities  of 
a  family  until  they  are  able  to  bear  such  a 
burden  without  aid  from  him.  He  cannot 
assist  them  without  materially  altering  his 
own  scale  of  living,  which  he  is  naturally 
loath  to  do.  At  his  death  the  income  gen 
erally  ceases  in  large  part,  and  his  widow, 
and  such  children  as  may  still  be  unplaced 
in  life,  are  obliged  to  relinquish  the  rented 
houses  and  the  way  of  life  to  which  they 
have  been  used. 

To  a  Frenchman  such  an  existence  would 
seem  as  uncertain  and  disturbing  as  is  gen 
erally  supposed  to  be  that  of  a  person  who 
215 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

has  built  upon  the  crust  of  a  volcano.  He 
could  not  contemplate  with  equanimity  the 
thought  of  chaos  overtaking  the  ordered 
existence  of  his  family  upon  his  demise. 
Apres  nous  le  deluge  seems  to  him  the 
insouciance  of  a  maniac,  or  of  a  monster 
of  selfishness.  Daily  expenditure  is  regu 
lated  within  a  limit  which  permits  of  a  con 
stant  investment  of  a  margin.  When  his 
daughter  marries  he  insures  in  her  carefully 
guarded  dower  that  she  shall  continue  her 
existence  on  somewhat  the  same  scale  to 
which  she  has  been  accustomed,  and,  in 
case  of  premature  widowhood  or  accident 
of  fortune,  she  and  her  children  shall  not 
be  called  upon  to  face  the  desperate  strait 
of  absolute  pennilessness.  He  may  deny 
her  in  her  girlhood  many  of  the  indulgences 
common  to  her  American  prototype,  but 
he  denies  himself  at  the  same  time  in  saving 
to  insure  the  security  and  comfort  of  her 
future.  The  French  father  would  think  it 
terrible  that  a  tenderly  nurtured  daughter 
should  be  suddenly  thrust  into  abject  de 
pendence  upon  a  husband  who  may  possibly 
abuse  the  power  given  him  by  that  circum 
stance,  nor  would  he  be  more  satisfied  to 
216 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

think  that  she  should,  during  her  first  years 
of  married  life,  while  still  young  and  en 
countering  the  strain  of  motherhood,  be 
called  upon  to  face  narrow  means  and  a 
perilously  uncertain  financial  condition. 

When  the  son  arrives  at  maturity  the 
economies  to  which  he,  in  company  with 
his  parents,  has  submitted,  bear  fruit  in 
substantial  aid  in  beginning  his  career,  and 
he  is  not  obliged  to  put  out  of  his  mind  all 
thought  of  marriage  during  his  youth,  since 
his  parents,  and  those  of  the  woman  of  his 
choice,  have  provided  for  this  very  con 
tingency  through  all  the  years  of  his  mi 
nority. 

The  French  —  with  the  logical  inevi- 
tableness  of  their  mode  of  thought  —  carry 
this  view  of  life  to  its  extreme  limit,  but 
throughout  all  Europe,  including  England, 
the  responsibility  of  the  parent  is  more 
broadly  conceived  than  in  this  country, 
where  the  excuse  for  an  infinity  of  cheap 
flimsiness  is  the  cynical  phrase,  "It  will  last 
my  time."  Men  build  cheaply,  and  for 
bear  to  undertake  work  of  which  they  can 
not  see  the  immediate  result,  because  there 
is  no  sense  of  obligation  to  the  coming 
217 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

generation.  The  democratic  theory  is  that 
each  man  must  fight  for  his  own  hand;  no 
debt  is  owed  to  either  ancestry  or  posterity. 
The  mind  is  not  shocked  by  sudden  destruc 
tion  of  families,  by  the  sharp  descent  in  the 
social  scale,  or  the  flinging  of  women  into 
the  arena  of  the  struggle  for  life.  The 
parent  is  quite  willing  to  share  with  the 
child  the  goods  of  existence  as  far  as  he  can 
achieve  them,  but  he  is  unwilling  to  deny 
either  child  or  himself  that  the  child  may 
benefit  alone,  or  after  he  is  gone. 

Conditions  in  America  are  constantly 
assimilating  themselves  more  and  more  to 
those  existing  in  the  older  countries,  where 
the  conflict  for  existence  is  close  and  in 
tense,  and  where  the  prudent,  the  careful, 
and  the  far-sighted  inevitably  crowd  out 
the  weaker  and  more  careless  individuals 
and  families.  An  almost  unmistakable  sign 
of  "an  old  family"  in  America  is  conserv 
atism  in  expenditure  and  modes  of  life. 
The  newly  rich,  who  set  the  pace  of  public 
luxury,  are  always  amazed  at  the  probates 
of  the  wills  of  these  quiet  citizens.  They 
cannot  believe  that  one  who  spent  so  little 
should  have  so  much,  not  realizing  that  the 
218 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

simplicity  of  life  made  it  possible  to  solidly 
invest  a  surplus.  The  heirs  of  this  solid 
wealth  have  been  bred  to  prudence  and 
self-denial.  Such  a  family  survives,  while 
in  all  probability  the  offspring  of  the  other 
type  may  in  two  generations  be  hopelessly 
trodden  into  the  mire. 

There  is  in  the  breasts  of  many  parents 
a  half-resentful  feeling  that  they  should  not 
be  asked  to  sacrifice  themselves  to  the  new 
generation.  They  insist  upon  their  own 
right  to  all  that  is  to  be  got  out  of  life,  feeling 
that  what  they  give  to  the  children  is  never 
repaid.  This  selfish  type  forgets  that  in 
doing  their  duty  they  are  but  returning  to 
their  children  what  they  themselves  received 
from  the  past  generation,  and  that  the  chil 
dren  will  in  turn  pay  to  their  descendants 
the  inherited  debt  of  honour  with  interest. 

JULY  30. 

I  was  lunching  out  to-day,  and  sat  beside 

Mrs.    C—         S .     She    told    me    her 

daughter  was  so  hoping  that  the  A 
new  child  would  be  a  girl.     Four  Question 
boys  seemed  a  superfluity  of  mas-   of 

f.    .  ,  111  Heredity. 

culmity  in  one  household. 
219 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

"I  wish  there  was  some  way  of  knowing 
beforehand  about  such  things,"  she  com 
plained. 

"When  F came," I  said,  airily, "there 

was  the  same  feeling  in  our  family;  we  all 
wanted  so  that  she  should  be  a  girl.  H— 
was  so  comforting.  He  said  she  certainly 
would  be,  if  there  was  anything  in  heredity; 
her  mother  was  a  girl,  and  all  her  aunts, 
and  both  her  grandmothers.  And  she  did 
turn  out  to  be  a  girl,  you  see." 

Mrs.  C—    -  S looked  at  me  with  her 

mild  blue  eyes,  and  said,  happily  —  "I 
wonder  if  there  is  really  anything  in  that; 
for  you  know  it's  just  the  same  in  our 
family!" 

OCTOBER  6. 

I  have  been  reading  in  one  of  the  maga 
zines  a  record  of  travel  in  the  Rocky  Moun- 
The  tains  of  the  Arctic  regions.  It  is 

Little         illustrated  with  pictures  of  some 
ten    polar    bear    skins  —  two    of 
them    evidently    mere    babies    of 
bears  —  a  dead  ram,  a  dead  caribou  —  the 
former  killed,  the  author  explains,  to  fur 
nish   the   first   food   he   had   in   forty-four 
220 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

hours.  He  concludes  his  article  with  this 
naive  charge:  "Wolves,  when  pressed  by 
hunger,  do  not  hesitate  to  fall  upon  one  of 
their  own  number  and  sacrifice  it  to  their 
beastly  cravings.  They  are  utterly  lacking 
in  conscience,  and  the  young  or  weak  of 
every  class  of  land  animals  suffer  from  their 
wanton  lack  of  mercy." 

Such  wicked  wolves!  And  how  about 
those  baby  bears  ? 

It  is  the  same  point  of  view  as  that  of  the 
Spanish  bull  fighters.  'They  are  not  Chris 
tians  —  they  have  no  souls  —  why  con 
sider  them  ? " 

As  I  have  said  before,  very  probably  the 
decent,  well-behaved,  kindly  Roman  citi 
zen  of  Nero's  day,  returning  with  his  family 
from  a  pleasant  afternoon  at  the  gladiatorial 
shows,  gathered  his  children  about  the 
household  altar,  offered  pious  libation  to 
the  gods,  and  went  peacefully  to  bed  with 
a  clean  and  untroubled  conscience.  It  was 
all  simply  a  question  of  the  point  of  view. 
A  Roman  citizen  was  certainly  not  going 
to  be  disturbed  by  a  sense  of  wrong-doing 
in  watching  the  pangs  of  such  creatures 
as  Christians  or  barbarians. 
221 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

The  theory  that  human  beings  were  each 
and  every  one  in  a  spiritual  sense,  brothers, 
came  later  to  trouble  this  fine  old  crusted 
indifference,  and  now  after  nearly  two 
thousand  years  the  idea  has  so  completely 
infiltrated  human  consciousness,  that  the 
death  agonies  of  men  can  no  longer  any 
where  serve  as  diversion  to  the  gentle  and 
the  good.  But  behind  that  sweeping  as 
sumption  that  we  of  all  organic  nature  alone 
possess  that  element  of  immortality,  bind 
ing  us  together  with  spiritual  ties,  and 
laying  upon  all  the  mutual  obligations  of 
justice  and  mercy,  we  have  been  nourishing 
a  towering  and  brutal  egotism,  that  moves 
blindly  and  stupidly  about  amid  unreckon- 
able  multitudes  of  sentient  fellow  crea 
tures;  unaware  of  their  lives,  their  passions, 
or  their  languages.  Contracted  inside  the 
shell  of  this  foolish  prepossession  we  miss 
half  the  interest  and  wonder  of  the  world 
we  inhabit,  and  —  thinking  of  ourselves  all 
the  while  as  an  honest  and  merciful  fellow 
—  we  play  an  unimaginable  devil  to  our 
unhappy  neighbours. 

And  yet  I  think  even  we  at  our  worst 
would  recoil  could  there  be  set  before  us  in 
222 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

plain  language  the  immitigable  horrors  of 
man's  place  in  nature  written  from  the 
point  of  view  of  even  the  most  philosophic 
and  amiable  of  the  beasts.  It  makes  the 
skin  upon  one's  flesh  crisp  to  reflect  how 
black  would  be  that  long  chronicle  of 
poisonings,  burnings,  slayings,  devourings. 
Those  unmentionable  tortures  upon  the 
vivisector's  table;  those  maimings  and  clip 
pings  of  well-loved  pets  to  gratify  a  cheerful 
but  perverted  fancy;  the  treachery,  ingrati 
tude,  and  fantastic  despotism  practised 
every  day,  and  always  —  throughout  the 
whole  indictment  set  forth  by  the  accusing 
animals,  —  would  be  seen  a  dark,  everflow- 
ing  stream  of  innocent  blood,  spilled  purely 
for  man's  idle  recreation.  The  fanged  Nero 
of  the  jungle,  the  very  Heliogabalus  of  the 
cobras  would  seem  spotless  saints  contrasted 
with  this  horrid  record  of  the  deeds  of 
what  are  commonly  called  kindly  and  up 
right  men.  The  beasts  had  never  need  to 
invent  a  devil  myth.  The  model  was 
always  to  their  hand. 

Cardinal  Newman  once  remarked,  with 
a  sense  of  surprise,  that  "we  know  less  of 
the  animals  than  we  do  of  the  angels,"  and 
223 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

when  one  remembers  the  disproportionate 
attention  given  the  two  subjects  this  is 
hardly  cause  for  wonder.  One  of  the 
favourite  texts  of  the  never-ending  debates 
of  the  schoolmen  of  the  Middle  Ages  was 
the  question  whether  sixty  thousand  angels 
would  have  room  to  stand  on  the  point  of  a 
needle;  and  upon  this  and  cognate  subjects 

.  .  .  "Doctor  and  Saint  —  they  heard  great  argument 

About  it,  and  About:  and  ever  more 
Came  out  by  that  same  door  wherein  they  went." 

But  of  any  study  of  what  we  call  —  in  our 
topping  human  fashion  —  "the  lower  orders 
of  creation "  the  history  of  the  schools  con 
tains  not  a  single  record. 

Even  since  science  has  begun  to  divert 
the  world's  mind  from  the  study  of  the 
macrocosm,  to  the  contemplation  of  the 
microcosm  this  same  ingrained  contempt 
and  misunderstanding  of  the  animals  has 
led  to  the  most  amazing  ideas.  Descartes, 
whose  study  of  the  reflex  actions  of  the 
muscles  curiously  anticipated  some  of  the 
subtlest  discoveries  made  recently  in  Chi 
cago  by  Professor  Loeb,  propounded  the 
theory,  in  his  "Reponses,"  that  animals 
were  mere  automata — which  ate  without 
224 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

pleasure,  cried  without  pain,  desired 
nothing,  knew  nothing,  and  only  simulated 
intelligence  as  a  bee  simulates  a  mathe 
matician.  He  says:  "Among  the  move 
ments  that  take  place  in  us  there  are  many 
which  do  not  depend  upon  the  mind  at  all, 
such  as  the  beating  of  the  heart,  the  diges 
tion  of  food,  nutrition,  and  respiration, 
walking,  singing,  and  other  similar  actions 
when  they  are  performed  without  the  mind 
thinking  of  them.  And  when  one,  who 
falls  from  a  height  throws  his  hands  for 
ward  to  save  his  head,  it  is  in  virtue  of  no 
ratiocination  that  he  performs  this  action. 
It  does  not  depend  upon  his  mind,  but  takes 
place  merely  because  his  senses  being  af 
fected  by  present  danger  some  change  arises 
in  his  brain  which  affects  the  nerves  in  such 
a  manner  as  is  required  to  produce  the 
motion,  in  the  same  manner  as  in  a  machine, 
and  without  the  mind  being  able  to  hinder 
it.  Now  since  we  observe  this  in  ourselves, 
why  should  we  be  so  astonished  if  the  light 
reflected  from  the  body  of  a  wolf  into  the 
eye  of  a  sheep  has  the  same  force  to  excite 
it  into  the  motion  of  flight  ? " 

Why  on  the  other  hand  should  we  refuse 
225 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

to  think  that  the  light  reflected  from  the 
body  of  a  lion  into  the  eye  of  Descartes 
himself  should  have  the  power  of  exciting 
him  into  the  motion  of  flight,  without  his 
mind  being  concerned  in  the  matter  at  all  — 
except  that  Descartes  himself  would  assure 
us  with  his  own  lips  that  this  was  not  so. 

Our  ignorance  of  the  dialects  of  animals, 
our  inability  to  understand  the  medium  by 
which  they  convey  their  thoughts,  makes 
it  possible  for  men  of  even  Descartes' 
abilities  to  generate  such  childish  hypoth 
eses.  Even  Huxley  says  blandly  of  ani 
mals  that  "Since  they  have  no  language 
they  can  have  no  trains  of  thought," 
though  he  admits  that  most  of  them  pos 
sess  that  part  of  the  brain  which  we  have 
every  reason  to  suppose  to  be  the  organ  of 
consciousness  in  man. 

It  is  one  of  the  most  regrettable  results 
of  this  human  egotism,  which  has  dug  so 
deep  and  permanent  a  gulf  between  our 
selves  and  our  fellow  creatures,  that  we 
have  made  no  concerted  or  intelligent  effort 
to  find  a  means  of  communication  with  our 
fellow  beings.  That  such  an  effort  would 
produce  results  worth  the  labour  it  would 
226 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

entail  we  have  reason  to  infer  from  the 
surprising  success  that  has  followed  our 
struggles  to  elucidate  the  meaning  of  the 
fragments  of  language  sculptured  on  the 
broken  stones  that  have  been  left  by  races 
extinct  for  thousands  of  years.  We  know 
how  great  are  the  barriers  the  varying 
tongues  raise  between  living  peoples:  how 
much  effort  must  be  given  to  acquire  a 
language  foreign  to  us,  even  when  sur 
rounded  by  the  sound  of  it  in  our  daily 
life,  and  assisted  by  teachers,  yet  supreme 
human  ingenuity  has,  from  these  fragments 
of  broken  stones,  reconstructed  dead  tongues 
and  forgotten  histories  of  civilizations  that 
for  millenniums  have  been  but  dust  blown 
through  voiceless  deserts.  Yet  in  all  the 
great  lapse  of  ages  during  which  man  has 
been  living  in  close  intimacy  with  his  domes 
ticated  animals  not  the  slightest  attempt  has 
been  made  to  cross  the  width  of  silence  lying 
between  him  and  his  faithful  companions. 

The  student  who  makes  the  acquaintance 
of  animals  only  in  the  trap  or  upon  the 
vivisection  table  may  well  assert  that  the 
beast  has 

"No  language  but  a  cry," 
227 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

but  those  who  approach  their  fellow  beings 
with  a  mind  divested  of  this  self-righteous 
cant  are  well  aware  that  the  animals  have 
means  of  communication  as  accurate  as  our 
own,  and  fully  sufficient  for  all  the  needs 
of  their  existence. 

To  an  ant  the  man  standing  beside  him 
is  as  a  creature  three  thousand  feet  high, 
would  be  to  us.  Now  let  us  imagine  this 
colossal  person  stooping  to  examine  the 
tiny  beings  hurrying  to  and  fro  in  a  channel 
between  a  row  of  structures  built  of  frag 
ments  that  would  appear  to  him  no  bigger 
than  grains  of  sand.  He  would,  of  course, 
be  unaware  that  this  channel  was  called 
Broadway,  or  the  Strand,  or  the  Avenue  de 
1'Opera. 

"Do  these  tiny  atoms  think,  reason,  or 
speak  ? "  he  would  ask  himself.  His  ear, 
of  course,  would  be  unable  to  catch  any 
vibrations  of  their  infinitesimal  tones,  but 
he  would  notice  here  and  there  two  of  them 
pausing  to  touch  their  forepaws,  remain 
ing  opposite  one  another  for  some  moments 
moving  their  minute  lips,  and  that  there 
upon  one  or  the  other  would  abandon  his 
travel  along  this  channel  and  move  off  in 
228 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

another  direction,  apparently  led  thereto 
by  the  communication  of  a  command  or 
suggestion  from  his  companion.  If  this 
giant  should  chance  to  be  an  intelligent 
giant  he  would  certainly  infer  that  these 
men  had  a  language. 

Now  let  us  step  out  upon  the  grass  any 
day  in  June  and  in  our  turn  use  an  intelli 
gent  eye.  Here  lies  a  dead  grasshopper. 
A  foraging  ant  comes  wandering  by.  He 
surveys  it  carefully  and  estimates  the  horse 
power  requisite  to  move  it,  and  then  hurries 
away  in  the  direction  of  home.  Meeting 
another  ant  he  stops,  touches  antennae  for 
a  few  moments,  and  passes  on.  The  second 
ant  makes  straight  for  the  grasshopper  and 
finds  it  without  trouble.  Nothing  can  be 
plainer  than  that  the  first  ant  told  the 
second  one  where  to  go.  "A  glorious  wind 
fall!"  he  probably  said,  "There's  a  dead 
Leviathan  about  two  miles  from  here.  Keep 
straight  on  till  you  come  to  a  three-cornered 
rock,  then  turn  to  the  left  and  you  will  come 
upon  three  grains  of  sand  and  a  straw. 
Climb  the  straw,  and  you  can't  miss  it.  It's 
big  enough  to  be  seen  a  mile  away."  The 
second  ant,  when  it  finds  the  grasshopper, 
229 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

does  not  go  home.  It  sits  down  and  waits 
till  the  first  one  returns  with  a  great  gang 
of  labourers,  and  then  every  one  seizes  hold 
of  a  leg  or  wing  and  the  stupendous  mass 
is  slowly  removed  to  the  nest.  Would  any 
person  with  ordinary  common-sense  sup 
pose  these  to  be  automata  ? 

Had  Huxley  pondered  the  Scriptures  and 
gone  to  the  ant  to  consider  her  ways  he 
would  have  certainly  been  cured  of  his 
haughty  illusions,  for  not  only  has  each 
species  of  ant  a  language  in  which  he  can 
communicate  with  other  ants  of  the  same 
species,  but  each  nest  or  clan  has,  clearly, 
its  own  brogue;  for  an  ant  knows  instantly 
whether  another  belongs  to  its  own  nest  or 
not.  The  ants  of  one  nest  murder  those 
of  another.  It  is  a  point  of  honour  with 
them. 

We  have  seen  that  Huxley  admits  reluc 
tantly  that  most  animals  have  those  por 
tions  of  brain  development  that  we  believe 
to  be  the  seat  of  consciousness,  but  here  is 
an  insect  with  organs  and  functions  as 
heterogeneous  from  our  own  as  can  well  be 
imagined,  and  yet  there  is  no  mode  of  life 
that  men  have  tried  which  one  or  another 
230 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

of  the  races  of  ants  is  not  pursuing  to-day. 
Beside  the  agriculturists  and  herdsmen, 
some  keep  slaves  to  do  everything  for  them, 
some  live  by  hunting  and  plunder,  while 
others  quarter  themselves  upon  us  and  live 
by  confounding  meum  and  tuum.  Any 
ardent  pomologist  may  study  the  herdsmen 
tribes  by  simply  turning  over  the  leaves  of 
his  young  apple  tree  in  the  spring.  Upon 
the  broad  succulent  meadows  of  the  under 
side  of  his  foliage  he  will  discover  fat  flocks 
of  aphis  cows,  tended  by  brawny  ant  cow 
herds,  who  keep  a  special  eye  upon  the  big 
brown  bulls  around  which  the  cows  and 
calves  gather  to  feed.  The  herdsmen  con 
duct  them  from  leaf  to  leaf  as  they  exhaust 
the  sap,  and  at  night  by  the  long  twig  paths 
and  barky  roads  they  carry  the  milk  of  the 
sweet  honey  dew  with  which  they  are  swol 
len.  If  the  horticulturist  be  hard  of  heart 
and  smear  away  a  whole  herd  with  a 
sweep  of  his  thumb,  the  horrified  herdsmen 
will  rush  frantically  home,  bursting  into  the 
nest  to  report  to  some  hyksos  king  of  the 
termites,  that  the  Philistines  have  fallen 
upon  his  charge  and  that  "I,  only  I,  have 
escaped  to  tell  the  tale!" 
231 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

The  most  interesting  of  the  agricultural 
races  of  ants  is  that  one  commonly  known 
in  the  West  Indies  as  the  parasol  ant,  from 
its  fashion  of  carrying  bits  of  flower  petals 
over  its  shoulder  at  the  angle  commonly 
used  with  a  sunshade.  This  ant  erects  an 
enormous  structure,  as  large  in  proportion 
to  its  size  as  is  the  City  of  London  to  any 
one  of  its  inhabitants.  The  dwellers  in 
these  cities  are  divided  into  classes:  farmers, 
road-makers,  explorers,  nurses,  soldiers, 
street  sweepers,  policemen,  and,  of  course, 
the  Queen.  The  great  town  is  kept  per 
fectly  clean  and  sanitary  by  the  scavengers, 
who  remove  all  refuse  every  day.  In  case 
of  death  the  bodies  are  removed  some  dis 
tance  and  buried.  The  soldiers  guard  the 
entrances  to  the  city,  and  in  case  of  attack 
by  one  of  the  Attila  hordes  of  the  barbarian 
hunter  ants,  they  fight  with  a  fury  and 
courage  so  great  that  only  after  the  entire 
army  is  destroyed  is  the  city  ever  given  up 
to  pillage. 

The  explorers  belonging  to  the  nest  scour 
the  surrounding  country  in  search  of  the 
material  needed  by  the  farmers,  and  follow 
ing  their  indications,  the  road-makers  clear 
232 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

paths  a  quarter  of  an  inch  in  width  and 
frequently  a  mile  in  length,  through  the 
immense  tangles  of  the  tropical  forests,  — 
roads  as  straight  and  useful  as  those  of  the 
Romans.  Along  these  the  farmers  pass, 
often  at  the  end  of  it  to  climb  a  tree  fifty 
feet  high  in  search  of  the  bits  of  flower 
petals,  with  which  they  pass  so  continuously 
to  the  nest  that  the  human  observer  will 
sometimes  see  what  appears  to  be  a  thin 
trickle  of  pink  or  yellow  through  the  jungle 
grass  as  far  as  the  eye  can  reach.  These 
flower  petals  are  packed  in  the  city's  cellars, 
moistened,  and  sown  with  the  .spores  of  a 
minute  fungus  upon  which  the  ants  live. 

Most  curious  of  all  is  that  these  ants  also 
keep  pets  —  several  varieties  of  tiny  insects 
which  they  feed  and  protect,  and  which 
apparently  serve  no  purpose  save  to  give 
pleasure  by  their  playful  gambols.  In  every 
well  established  city  of  the  parasol  ants  there 
resides  a  small  green  snake  in  a  chamber 
built  about  him  by  the  ants  themselves, 
who  feed  and  guard  him,  and  when  by  any 
accident  the  little  reptile  is  removed  they 
abandon  all  their  affairs  until  another  is 
found  to  replace  him.  Unless  this  snake 

233 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

serves  them  as  a  fetish  or  deity  there  is  no 
means  of  accounting  for  their  desire  for  his 
presence,  for  as  far  as  can  be  discovered 
he  fills  no  purpose  of  utility.  Mark  Twain 
declares  that  the  ants  "vote,  keep  drilled 
armies,  hold  slaves  and  dispute  about  re 
ligion,"  and  for  all  we  know  this  little  snake 
may  be  the  centre  of  a  complex  system  of 
theology. 

Consider  too  Maeterlinck's  "Life  of  the 
Bee,"  that  remarkable  study  of  a  civiliza 
tion  so  unlike  our  own.  It  is  common  to 
dismiss  the  bee's  geometrical  abilities  with 
the  futile  word  instinct,  but  honest  students 
of  the  work  of  these  astonishing  insects 
have  shown  that,  given  a  new  situation  to 
deal  with,  they  first  hold  active  counsel  to 
gether  concerning  it,  and  then  adapt  their 
means  to  new  conditions  with  all  the  skill 
and  flexibility  that  suggest  powers  of  trained 
reasoning.  Here  is  a  race  that  works  for 
an  ideal.  The  general  good  of  the  hive 
inspires  in  them  as  inflexible  a  severity,  as 
ardent  an  abandonment  of  the  desires  of 
the  individual  as  did  the  Roman  patriotism 
of  the  elder  Brutus,  or  of  the  young  Scae- 
vola.  No  more  remarkable  story  is  to  be 
234 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

found  in  literature  than  Maeterlinck's  de 
scription  of  the  nuptial  flight  of  the  Queen 
Bee.  Choosing  a  warm  and  perfect  day 
in  the  very  prime  of  the  season's  glow,  dis 
tilling  as  she  goes  some  intoxicating  aroma 

—  impalpable    to   our   grosser    senses  —  a 
perfume  of  love  that  drives  every  drone  of 
the  hives  in  passionate  ardour  to  that  deadly 
encounter,  to  which  only  he   may  obtain 
who  can  follow  her  arrowy  course  into  the 
blue,  where,  out  of  sight  of  our  feeble  eyes, 
that  one  lethal  embrace  occurs  after  which 
the  lover  comes  hurtling  from  the   skies, 
dead    and    eviscerated.     To    provide    this 
lover,  whose  potent  tenderness  shall  ensure 
a     myriad    generation  —  this    lover    with 
greater  wing  flight  than  any  of  his  fellows 

—  with  countless  facetted  eyes,  with  greater 
body  and  stronger  limbs,  this  creature  of 
such  passion  as  to  sacrifice  his  life  for  one 
moment  of  joy  —  the  unflagging  life  work 
of  not  less  than  five  of  the  sexless  workers 
must  be  given,  and  hundreds  of  drones  are 
raised  each  year  that  among  them  one  may 
prove  strong  enough  to  attain  to  that  dizzy 
aerial  love. 

Beside  the  stern,  homogeneous,  self-sac- 

235 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

rificing  civilization  of  the  bees  that  of  even 
the  Japanese  shows  but  clumsy,  disordered 
and  inadequate. 

Many  of  the  doings  of  these  small  brothers 
of  ours  seem  incomprehensible  and  un 
reasonable  to  us,  but  imagine  that  three 
thousand  foot  giant  looking  down  upon 
the  mites  in  France  and  Germany  in  1870 
without  an  inkling  as  to  the  Spanish  succes 
sion;  upon  the  recent  incredible  scufflings 
and  passagings  back  and  forth  over  the 
veldts  of  South  Africa  without  being  in 
structed  as  to  the  term  of  residence  required 
to  obtain  the  franchise.  To  his  ignorant 
eye  how  purposeless,  how  amazingly  futile 
the  whole  affair  would  have  seemed.  And 
it  is  thus  we  move,  stupid  and  contemptuous, 
amid  great  races  and  events,  heavily  indif 
ferent  to  their  meaning,  to  their  significance 
to  ourselves.  We  walk  surrounded  by 
powers  whose  forces  we  ignore,  who  work 
out  their  ends  independent  of  us,  yet  against 
whom  we  are  sometimes  forced  to  battle 
mightily  for  existence.  To  the  unreflecting 
man  in  the  street  the  cinch  bug  seems  a 
matter  of  small  interest.  No  one  inter 
views  the  coddling  moth  to  inquire  his 
236 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

intentions.  War  correspondents  pass  by 
the  locust  and  ignore  the  cotton  worm;  the 
fly  weevil  and  the  ox  hot  seem  to  such  an 
one  but  a  feeble  folk,  yet  every  year  in  the 
United  States  alone  these  small  races  cost 
us  more  than  three  hundred  and  fifty  mil 
lions  of  dollars,  destroy  one  tenth  of  our 
agricultural  wealth,  and  are  more  expensive 
to  us  than  was  the  yearly  cost  of  the  Boer 
war  to  England. 

We  are  the  victims  of  pigmy  captains  of 
pernicious  industries,  beside  whose  gigantic 
operations  such  magnates  as  Carnegie  or 
Mr.  Morgan  look  —  in  the  language  of  the 
streets  —  like  thirty  cents. 

Darwin  discovered  that  human  and  plant 
life  would  perish  from  the  face  of  the  earth 
were  it  not  for  the  labours  of  that  humble 
annelid,  commonly  known  as  the  angle 
worm,  through  whose  body  the  entire  super 
ficial  soil  of  the  globe  passes  periodically, 
and  by  whose  digestive  processes  it  is  made 
amenable  for  agriculture.  The  termites 
subserve  the  angle  worm's  efforts  by  turn 
ing  over  and  aerating  the  soil  to  an  extent 
very  nearly  incredible  to  those  who  have 
given  no  attention  to  their  industry.  Our 
237 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

very  existence  is  made  possible  by  the 
myriad  beings  for  whom  our  bodies  serve 
as  homes  and  battlefields,  and  whose  di 
mensions  are  so  minute  as  to  be  invisible 
save  under  the  most  powerful  microscopes. 
Ferocious  struggles  take  place  within  our 
own  tissues  between  the  germs  of  disease 
and  the  white  corpuscles  of  the  blood,  those 
brave  and  sleepless  warriors  who  patrol  our 
veins,  and  who  die  by  thousands  with  unre 
flecting  courage  in  combats  with  malignant 
bacteria.  When  their  ranks  are  thinned, 
their  columns  crushed,  we  succumb  help 
lessly  to  our  invisible  foes. 

How  many  of  the  great  and  good  have 
fallen  victims  to  those  Brinvilliers  of  the 
swamps  —  the  anopheles  mosquitoes  ?  And 
a  greater  number  of  the  young  flower  of 
the  armies  of  America  and  England  were 
slaughtered  by  the  enteric  germs  carried 
by  flies  than  fell  victims  to  Boer  or  Spanish 
bullets. 

How  little  have  we  regarded  the  fly, 
and  yet  the  facts  about  this  little  brother 
stagger  the  imagination!  It  is  said  to  be 
certain  that  he  came  to  this  country  in  the 
Mayflower;  but  compare  his  conquests  and 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

fertility  with  that  of  the  Pilgrims.  Linnaeus 
said  that  three  flies  and  the  generations 
that  could  spring  from  them  could  eat  a 
dead  horse  more  rapidly  than  could  a  lion, 
but  later  knowledge  shows  that,  barring 
mortality,  the  number  of  flies  resulting 
from  one  female  in  a  summer  would  be 
something  like  seven  hundred  sextillions, 
and  would  in  mere  bulk  outweigh  every 
man,  woman,  and  child  on  earth.  Happily 
the  fly  has  enemies. 

In  speaking  of  these  smaller  races  an 
idea  of  their  relations  to  us  can  only  be 
conveyed  by  figures;  with  the  larger  forms 
of  life  the  individual  may  be  studied  as  a 
type  of  the  race. 

We,  secure  in  a  conviction  of  a  unique 
value  through  the  immortality  we  claim, 
broadly  stigmatize  our  living  fellows  as  of 
"the  lower  orders  of  life."  They  are  differ 
ent,  it  is  true,  but  in  what  respect  lower  ? 
Their  development  is  as  commensurate 
with  their  needs  as  is  ours.  The  shib 
boleth  of  the  Socialists  —  ''To  each  accord 
ing  to  his  needs,  from  each  according  to  his 
abilities,"  has  plainly  been  the  rule  with 
nature.  Whatever  we  boast  of  achieving 
239 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

has  been  accomplished  as  well  or  better  by 
these  lower  orders  when  their  necessities 
have  demanded  it.  Even  the  Japanese 
create  inferior  paper  to  that  made  by  the 
wasps,  who  number  among  the  species  the 
most  skilled  of  carpenters  and  masons. 
Who  can  spin  or  weave  as  can  the  aracbna 
and  their  cognate  families  ?  The  beautiful 
manufactures  of  the  mollusks  —  even  of  the 
diatoms,  invisible  save  with  the  microscope 
—  leave  us  beggared  of  admiration  and 
envy. 

If  it  be  a  question  of  physical  qualities 
let  us  compare  the  eye  of  the  eagle,  or  of  a 
fly,  with  our  own  —  pit  our  dull  sense  of 
smell  with  the  subtle  olfactories  of  a  dog 
or  a  wolf  —  or  let  one  of  us  test  our  sense 
of  hearing  against  that  of  a  mouse  or  a 
robin.  The  albatross  loafs  in  indolent 
circles  about  the  swiftest  of  our  turbine 
ships;  the  porpoise  can  pass  from  point  to 
point  in  his  dense  element  with  greater 
speed  than  that  of  our  swiftest  express 
engine.  The  wild  goose  can  do  his  eighty 
miles  an  hour  for  ten  hours  without  rest. 
Scare  up  little  Molly  Cottontail  from  your 
path,  and  as  she  flies  through  the  autumn 
240 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

grasses  like  a  light  leaf  blown  before  the 
wind,  her  delicate  and  harmonious  play 
of  muscular  powers  leaves  our  most  skilled 
athletes  but  clumsy  cripples  by  comparison. 

In  sight,  smell,  hearing,  speed,  strength, 
grace,  and  endurance  we  are  immeasurably 
the  inferiors  of  our  dumb  brothers.  And 
turning  from  the  material  to  the  spiritual 
and  the  ideal,  we  find  that  in  industry, 
courage,  patriotism,  loyalty,  fidelity,  friend 
ship,  chivalry,  maternal  love,  and  racial 
solidity  the  lower  orders  have  nothing  to 
learn  from  us.  Indeed  some  races  we  find 
advanced  in  moral  progress  in  certain 
directions  far  beyond  our  most  hopeful 
endeavours. 

The  needs  and  laws  of  their  being  have 
developed  their  morals  in  differing  degree, 
and  the  virtues  of  individuals  vary  as  greatly 
as  among  ourselves.  Of  the  characters  and 
ideals  of  wild  creatures  we  can  snatch  but 
brief  and  tantalizing  glimpses;  from  the 
larger  domestic  animals  our  daily  life  is 
too  removed  to  make  intimacy  possible,  but 
dogs  and  cats,  the  free  birds,  and  our  caged 
pets  —  if  considered  with  a  seeing  eye  — 
open  a  door  through  which  we  can  learn 
241 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

much,  though  our  indolence  and  stupidity 
still  shut  us  off  from  the  free  community  of 
speech. 

Carlyle  says:  "No  nobler  feeling  than 
that  of  admiration  for  one  higher  than  him 
self  dwells  in  the  breast  of  man.  It  is  at 
this  hour,  and  at  all  hours  the  unifying 
influence  in  man's  life.  Religion,  I  find, 
stands  upon  it  ...  what,  therefore,  is 
loyalty  proper,  the  life  breath  of  all  society, 
but  an  effluence  of  hero  worship;  submissive 
admiration  for  the  truly  great!  Society  is 
founded  upon  hero  worship." 

Lockhart  in  his  Life  of  Scot  tells  of  a  little 
pig  who  conceived  a  passion  of  admiration 
and  affection  for  Scott  which  much  embar 
rassed  the  great  story  teller.  This  suscep 
tible  little  porker  would  lurk  about,  waiting 
for  Scott's  appearance,  squealing  with  joy 
when  he  came,  and  trotting  patiently  all 
day  at  his  heels  through  miles  of  wander 
ing,  proud  and  contented  at  merely  being 
allowed  to  attend  on  Scott.  What  was  this 
but  Carlyle's  hero  worship.  It  is  not  by  the 
way  recorded  that  any  pig  ever  made  a  hero 
of  Carlyle.  I  once  had  the  pleasure  of 
knowing  a  goose  who  abandoned  his  kind  for 
242 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

just  such  a  human  friendship,  and  the  same 
love  of  the  admirable  is  mutual  among  the 
animals  themselves.  A  small  green  paro 
quet,  who  lived  in  the  freedom  of  a  bird 
fancier's  room  with  a  canary,  was  possessed 
of  a  passionate  admiration  for  his  more 
gifted  companion.  His  every  waking  mo 
ment  was  spent  in  the  most  touching  efforts 
to  imitate  the  thrilling  songs  and  graceful 
airiness  of  his  more  gifted  friend,  in  no  way 
discouraged  by  the  contumely  with  which 
the  yellow  tenor  treated  his  lumberingly 
pathetic  failures.  But  there  is  no  more 
confirmed  hero  worshipper  than  your  dog. 
Stevenson  says  of  a  dog  whom  he  knew  and 
loved:  "It  was  no  sinecure  to  be  Coolin's 
idol.  He  was  exacting  like  a  rigid  parent; 
and  at  every  sign  of  levity  in  the  man  whom 
he  respected  he  announced  loudly  the  death 
of  virtue  and  the  proximate  fall  of  the  pillars 
of  the  earth."  And,  he  adds,  "for  every 
station  the  dog  has  an  ideal  to  which  the 
master  —  under  pain  of  derogation  —  will 
do  wisely  to  conform.  How  often  has  not 
a  cold  glance  informed  me  that  my  dog 
was  disappointed,  and  how  much  more 
gladly  would  he  not  have  taken  a  beating 
243 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

than  to  be  thus  wounded  in  the  seat  of 
piety." 

"Because  of  all  animals  the  dog  is  our 
nearest  intimate  we  know  more  of  his  ideals 
and  of  his  moral  traits  than  of  those  of  the 
other  races.  We  know  that  he  is  vainer 
than  man,  singularly  greedy  of  notice, 
singularly  intolerant  of  ridicule,  suspicious 
like  the  deaf,  jealous  to  the  degree  of 
frenzy." 

To  quote  Stevenson  again:  'To  the 
dog  of  gentlemanly  feeling  theft  and  false 
hood  are  disgraceful  vices.  The  canine 
like  the  human  gentleman,  demands  in  his 
misdemeanours  Montaigne's  *je  ne  sais  quoi 
de  genereux!'  He  is  never  more  than  half 
ashamed  of  having  barked  or  bitten,  and 
for  those  faults  into  which  he  has  been  led 
by  a  desire  to  shine  before  a  lady  of  his 
race,  he  retains,  even  under  physical  cor 
rection,  a  share  of  pride.  But  to  be  caught 
lying,  if  he  understands  it,  instantly  uncurls 
his  fleece."  "Among  dull  observers  the 
dog  has  been  credited  with  modesty.  It  is 
amazing  how  the  use  of  language  blunts 
the  faculties  of  man.  That  because  vain 
glory  finds  no  vent  in  words,  creatures  sup- 
244 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

plied  with  eyes  have  been  unable  to  detect 
a  fault  so  gross  and  obvious  is  amazing. 
If  a  small  spoiled  dog  were  to  be  endowed 
with  speech  he  would  prate  interminably 
and  still  about  himself.  In  a  year's  time 
he  would  have  gone  far  to  weary  out  our 
love.  Hans  Christian  Andersen,  as  we  be 
hold  him  in  his  startling  memoirs  —  thrill 
ing  from  top  to  toe  with  excruciating  vanity 

—  scouting  the  streets  for  cause  of  offence 

—  here  was  your  talking  dog." 

While  an  egregious,  incurable  snob  the 
dog  is  yet  the  very  flower  of  chivalry.  The 
beggar  maid  of  his  kind  is  sure  of  as  dis 
tinguished  a  consideration  from  him  as  is 
the  queen  of  his  race.  Indeed  he  carries 
his  gallantry  to  so  exquisite  a  point  of  quix 
otism  that  even  a  female  wolf  is  safe  from 
his  teeth.  Gratitude  is  the  keynote  of  his 
character;  to  its  claims  he  will  subdue  even 
his  innate  snobbishness,  and  his  devotion 
to  the  mysterious  laws  of  his  canine  etiquette 
amount  to  slavishness.  "In  the  elaborate 
and  conscious  manners  of  the  dog,  moral 
opinions  and  the  love  of  the  ideal  stand 
confessed.  To  follow  for  ten  minutes  in 
the  street  some  swaggering  canine  cavalier 
245 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

is  to  receive  a  lesson  in  dramatic  art  and 
the  cultured  conduct  of  the  body;  and  in 
every  act  and  gesture  you  see  him  true  to  a 
refined  conception.  For  to  be  a  high-man 
nered  and  high-minded  gentleman,  careless, 
affable,  and  gay,  is  the  inborn  pretension  of 
the  dog." 

Of  all  persons  now  living  I  personally 
should  most  prefer  to  be  enabled  to  con 
verse  freely  with  that  high-bred,  subtle- 
natured  lady  who  follows  me  in  my  walks, 
who  shares  my  meals  and  lies  beside  my  fire. 
She  has  learned  with  ease  to  understand 
my  speech,  but  I,  in  my  gross  sluggish 
ness,  have  neglected  to  acquire  her  tongue, 
and  yet  how  different  a  place  this  dull  world 
would  appear  could  I  learn  all  she  might  tell 
me.  What  sights,  sounds,  and  odours, 
what  significances  escaping  my  dull  senses, 
might  become  open  to  me!  A  thousand 
times  I  have  been  aware  of  her  pitying 
impatience  of  my  slow-wittedness  in  matters 
so  obvious  to  her  keener  intelligence.  A 
whole  world  lies  outside  of  my  apprehen 
sion  with  which  she  is  familiar,  and  all  my 
life  I  shall  suffer  unappeased  curiosity  as  to 
how  she  becomes  aware  of  approaching 
246 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

changes  in  the  weather;  why  a  certain  part 
of  the  wood  is  taboo.  What  is  it  that  warns 
her  of  a  death  in  my  family  ?  Why  does  a 
certain  good  and  gentle  woman  fill  her  with 
loathing  distrust,  and  what  was  the  peculiar 
refinement  of  insult  she  received  in  her 
puppyhood  from  the  family  butcher,  which 
has  made  it  possible  for  her  daily  for  six 
years  to  detect  the  sound  of  the  butcher's 
wheels  among  many  others  while  he  is  still 
not  in  sight,  and  daily  produces  in  her  a 
rage  of  resentment  that  no  punishment,  no 
offer  of  tidbits,  has  ever  been  able  to  allay  ? 

All  these  things  I  shall  never  know.  She 
shares  my  life,  but  I,  regretfully,  protest- 
ingly,  must  stand  almost  wholly  outside  of 
hers. 

When  we  at  last  seriously  take  up  the 
great  task  of  articulate  communication  with 
the  animals,  a  new  world  will  swim  into  our 
ken  beside  which  the  discovery  of  America 
will  seem  but  an  unimportant  event.  Half 
of  the  unexplained  puzzles  of  science  will 
be  solved  with  ease,  and  whole  departments 
of  knowledge  as  yet  undreamed  of  will  be 
opened  to  our  astonished  understandings. 

Perhaps  by  our  little  dumb  brothers  we 
247 


THE   SECRET    LIFE 

are  still  compassionately  reckoned  as  the 
deaf  and  blind  giant. 

AUGUST  5. 

A  thousand  times  the  great  clock's  heart  has  beat  — 

A  thousand,  thousand  times,  Fever. 

And  ever  at  the  hours  the  sudden,  sweet,  Dreams. 

Low,  unexpected  ringing  of  the  chimes 

Tells  how  the  night  doth  slowly  pass  away. 

The  hissing  snow  fell  through  the  air  all  day, 

But  with  the  dark  did  cease  — 

I  hear  the  shivers  of  the  frozen  trees. 

The  night-lamp's  gleam — though  weak  the  flame  and  small — 

Casts  shadows  giant  tall 

That  to  the  ceiling  crawl  — 

The  cap-frill  of  the  sleeping  nurse  doth  fall 

And  nod  this  way  and  that  against  the  wall. 

Quiet  the  great  dark  house,  and  deeply  sleep  they  all  — 

They  held  me  fast,  they  could  not  hear  the  call 

That  I  heard  always  —  chill  the  winds  did  blow  — 

The  skies  were  dark  —  the  ways  were  white  with  snow  — 

He  did  not  call  —  I  wandered  to  think  so. 

But  now  they  sleep,  I  will  arise  and  go. 

They  think  him  dead,  but  his  sweet  voice  I  know. 

I  stretch  my  hands,  my  heart  beats  hard  —  his  voice  is  sweet 

and  low, 

But  muffled  by  the  weight  of  earth,  and  hath  a  note  of  woe  — 
He  calls  to  me:     I  cannot  stay;  I  must  arise  and  go  — 
I  step  out  on  the  floor  — 
(How  loud  that  nurse  doth  snore) 
But  I  softly  close  the  door. 
I  quickly  pass  from  the  outer  door. 
It  is  very,  very  cold!  — 
But  he  will  me  closely  fold 
With  a  tender  clasping  arm, 
And  still  my  deep  alarm  — 

248 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

On  his  heart  I  shall  be  warm! 

The  snow  is  smooth  as  glass. 

I  scarcely  leave  a  foot-print  as  I  pass  — 

It  is  very  cold,  and  the  way  is  long,  alas! 

And  they  have  buried  him  deep,  so  deep  under  the  frozen 

grass. 

It  was  cruel  to  bury  him  so  deep; 
He  was  not  dead,  he  was  only  asleep  — 
He  was  not  dead;  it  makes  me  weep 
To  think  he  is  in  this  frozen  ground  — 
Why  does  the  moon  whirl  round  and  round! 
My  head  is  dizzy;  I'm  faint  and  ill  — 
Will  no  one  make  the  moon  stand  still  ? 
The  foolish  moon  whirls  round  and  round  — 
What  is  it  that  the  pine  trees  know, 
That  they  rustle  and  whisper  together  so  ? 
Someone  was  buried  under  the  snow 
More  than  a  thousand  years  ago!  — 
My  long  black  shadow  runs  by  my  side. 
Was  it  I,  or  my  love  that  died 
And  was  buried  deeply  under  the  snow 
So  many  hundred  years  ago  ? 
Oh!  how  can  I  reach  him  under  the  ground  ? 
I  am  burning  with  fire,  my  head  turns  round. 
He  does  not  call  me,  I  hear  no  sound  — 
Ah!  —  will  no  one  come  to  me  ?     I'm  all  alone, 
The  norse  does  not  hear,  she's  as  deaf  as  a  stone, 
The  walls  of  the  grave  together  have  grown, 
The  dead  man  lies  still  and  makes  no  moan, 
They  have  left  me  here  with  this  corpse  alone  — ! 
His  golden  hair  is  tarnished  with  rust; 
His  eyes  have  withered  and  fallen  to  dust  — 
His  subtle,  secret,  amber  eyes; 
The  worms  might  have  spared  those  amber  eyes  — 
His  lips  are  grey  with  dust  and  sunken; 
His  heart  is  cold,  and  his  cheeks  are  shrunken  — 
He  must  be  dead,  so  still  he  lies! 

****** 

249 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

I  lay  in  my  bed  and  he  called  to  me, 
They  held  me,  but  it  might  not  be 
That  we  should  rest  so  far  apart, 
And  we  have  lain  here,  heart  to  heart, 
Since  I  came  out  across  the  snow 
More  than  a  thousand  years  ago. 

SEPTEMBER  7. 

Mary  R was  telling  us  to-day  the 

details  of  Zola's  accidental  death  —  if  it 
A  Misun-  was  an  accident.  There  are  a 
derstood  few,  she  tells  me,  who  whisper  pri- 
Morahst.  vateiv  ^^  the  enemies  he  made 

by  "Lourdes"  and  "Rome"  are  of  the  sort 
who  wait  long  and  patiently,  and  strike 
hard,  and  strike  at  the  back  when  the  time 
of  vengeance  comes.  That  sounds  rather 
sensational,  and  certainly  the  general  public 
have  heard  no  such  suggestion. 

The  story  of  the  death-chamber  is  like 
a  chapter  from  one  of  his  own  books,  and 
one  can't  but  feel  how  gruesome  and  vivid 
he  would  have  made  the  account  of  the 
tragedy  could  he  have  recorded  it. 

It's  rather  odd  how  the  multitude  still 
judge  Zola  at  the  rating  of  twenty  years 
since,  before  he  had  developed  the  meaning 
of  his  methods  and  proved  himself  one  of 
the  greatest  of  the  moral  teachers. 
250 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

It  was  certainly  as  long  ago  as  that  when 
a  battered,  grimy  copy  of  "Nana"  drifted 
by  some  swirl  of  chance  into  my  youthful 
hands.  I  was  quite  old  enough  to  realize 
that  my  pastors  and  masters  would  be  con 
vulsed  with  horror  did  they  at  all  suspect 
what  I  was  at,  but  being  in  those  days  as 
omnivorous  as  Lamb  —  "Shaftesbury  was 
not  too  genteel  for  me,  nor  Jonathan  Wild 
too  low"  -everything  on  which  a  hand 
could  be  laid  passed  into  my  greedy  mental 
maw,  from  Locke  "On  the  Human  Under 
standing"  to  the  novels  of  the  Duchess, 
and  I  had  intelligence  enough  not  to  chat 
ter  about  every  book  I  opened. 

I  remember  with  perfect  vividness  the 
moral  revelation  given  me  by  the  chapter 
descriptive  of  the  drunken  orgie  in  Nana's 
rooms,  where  they  wound  up  the  gaieties 
of  the  evening  by  the  spirited  jest  of  pouring 
the  champagne  into  the  piano.  In  a  flash 
was  made  clear  to  me  what  I  had  never 
previously  suspected,  that  vice  was  tedious 
and  unamusing! 

Until  that  moment  I  had  accepted  in 
perfect  good  faith  the  insistence  of  the 
moralists  upon  the  delicious,  exciting,  irre- 
251 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

sistible  nature  of  vice,  which,  though  de 
plorable  in  its  eventual  effects,  was  too 
agreeable  to  be  refrained  from  unless  forti 
fied  by  either  religion  or  the  choicest  col 
lection  of  moral  maxims. 

We  were  the  contented  owners,  at  that 
same  period,  of  a  large  engraving  of  a  popu 
lar  painting  entitled  "The  Prodigal  Son"; 
one  of  those  pictures  supposed  to  have  a 
"good  moral"  and  help  silently,  in  season 
and  out  of  season,  to  point  towards  virtue 
like  a  sign  at  the  crossroads.  The  engrav 
ing  was  divided  into  three  parts,  like  a 
triptych;  the  central,  and  by  far  the  largest 
portion,  showed  the  famous  ne'er-do-weel 
prodigalling  with  all  his  might  in  a  sort  of 
lordly  pleasure  dome,  all  columns  and 
sweeping  curtains  and  steps,  open  to  the 
sunshine  on  every  side,  and  decorated  with 
the  most  expensive  cut  flowers.  A  meal, 
which  plainly  deserved  to  be  called  by  no 
meaner  name  than  a  banquet,  was  toward, 
and  the  naughty  young  gentleman,  bedecked 
in  velvet  and  soothed  by  the  music  of  viols, 
was  feasting  amid  a  medley  of  young  ladies 
of  the  most  dazzling  physical  charms,  all 
attired  in  those  sketchy  toilets  which  have 
252 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

no  visible  means  of  support,  and  which 
allow  the  artist  to  prove  his  inexhaustible  tal 
ent  for  drawing  arms  and  busts.  So  viva 
cious  and  sumptuous  was  this  scene  that  at 
first  one  hardly  noticed  the  narrow  panels 
to  right  and  left,  in  one  of  which  the  profuse 
prodigal  was  on  a  subsequent  occasion 
dining  en  famille  with  the  swine,  and  later 
journeying  toward  forgiveness  and  veal. 

The  moralists,  from  Isaiah  down,  have 
so  dearly  loved  to  show  their  talent  for 
drawing  arms  and  busts.  The  delineation 
of  vice  always  usurps  all  the  foreground  of 
the  canvas.  According  to  them,  the  broad 
road  is  unfailing  in  its  crops  of  flowers,  the 
wine  is  always  red  in  the  cup,  "with  beaded 
bubbles  winking  at  the  brim."  The  frisky 
enchantresses  are  without  exception  young 
and  charming.  The  reverse  of  the  picture 
is  depressingly  bleak  —  by  way  of  proper 
dramatic  contrast,  perhaps,  though  to  any 
one  less  austere  than  a  moralist  it  would 
seem  unintelligent  to  point  out  that  in  one 
direction  all  was  gay,  brilliant,  and  agree 
able,  yet  one  must  follow  the  gloomy, 
tedious,  and  unpleasant  road  in  order  to 
find  some  intangible  spiritual  satisfaction, 
253 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

which  to  youthful  and  ardent  minds  seems 
drearily  remote,  and  unsatisfying  when 
reached.  Besides  it  really  isn't  true.  Life 
as  a  matter  of  fact  is  certainly  more  agree 
able  when  one  behaves  one's  self  decently. 
Nothing  was  ever  more  blatantly  untrue 
than  the  cynical  proverb  which  declares 
that  everything  pleasant  is  either  indiges 
tible,  expensive,  or  immoral.  But  the  mind 
of  youth  is  almost  touchingly  credulous. 
It  rarely  questions  the  accuracy  of  the  de 
scriptions  of  the  moralists,  who  claim  to  be 
experts,  though  instinctively  it  develops  a 
necessity  for  experimenting  a  little  with 
those  forbidden  sweets  of  which  it  has  heard 
so  much  praise. 

Until  I  read  "  Nana  "  it  never  occurred  to 
me  to  question  that  vice  was  in  itself  agree 
able,  since  I  had  never  heard  aught  to  the 
contrary;  but  that  champagne  poured  into 
the  piano  washed  away  the  conviction 
forever.  It  seemed  so  squalid,  so  unimagi 
native,  so  dull;  and  all  the  vice  I  have 
observed  since  has  shared  its  lack  of  charm. 
I  found  that  the  broad  road  had  no  patent 
on  flowers  and  sunshine,  that  dishonesty 
nine  times  out  of  ten  failed  of  returns  at  all 
254 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

commensurate  with  the  energy  devoted  to 
it;  that  loose  behaviour  was  nearly  always 
noisome  and  fatiguing;  that  the  prodigal, 
instead  of  being  a  beautiful  young  person 
in  velvet,  generally  had  a  red  nose  and  a 
waist,  and  borrowed  from  his  acquaintances, 
and  that  the  enchantresses  had  not  nearly 
as  good  figures  as  the  painters  credited 
them  with,  and  as  a  rule  had  no  real  feeling 
for  soap  and  water.  The  truth  is  that  all 
forms  of  vice  are  for  the  most  part  not  only 
repulsive  but  intolerably  unamusing,  and 
Zola  was  the  first  of  the  moralists  who  had 
the  courage  to  be  original  and  speak  dis 
respectfully  of  it. 

SEPTEMBER  10. 

A  man  who  took  me  in  to  dinner  Wednes 
day  night  said,  pityingly, 

'You  seem  to  be  a  pessimist.  The 
Why  is  that  ?     Are  you  unhappy  ? "  Pleasures 

That  sort  of  remark  is  a  shot  be-  of 

.          .  .   ,  Pessimism. 

tween  wind  and  water,  and  leaves 

one  speechless.     I  crossly  denied  being  an 

ist  of  any  sort,  and  changed  the  subject. 

Possibly  he  was  led  to  his  banal  person 
ality  by  some  remark  I  had  made,  of  the 
255 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

sort  that  is  commonly  called  cynical  be 
cause  it  is  true. 

The  optimists  have  a  theory  that  those 
who  don't  take  the  same  view  of  life  as 
themselves  must  therefore  be  unhappy. 
It's  an  amazing  conclusion.  They  seem 
to  have  no  idea  how  the  pessimists  enjoy 
their  own  sense  of  superiority.  It  is  as  if 
the  blind  should  say  to  the  man  with  eyes: 
"How  unhappy  you  must  be  to  see  things 
just  as  they  are.  Now  I  can  imagine  them 
to  be  anything  I  please ! " 

The  man  with  eyes  could,  of  course,  only 
smile;  it  being  obviously  impossible  to  dis 
cuss  such  a  proposition. 

The  believers  in  personal  immortality 
labour  under  the  same  curious  illusion 
apparently.  They  are  so  sorry  for  those 
who  don't  believe  in  it,  and  imagine  them 
frightened  at  the  thought  of  death.  To 
their  minds  the  universe  is  inconceivable 
without  their  presence,  seemingly  forgetful 
of  the  fact  that  it  got  on  quite  well  before 
they  came.  It  is  rather  an  imposing  bit  of 
egotism,  after  all.  It  rises  to  the  level  of 
grandeur. 

Catholics,  I  know,  have  the  same  pity 
256 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

and  astonishment  about  the  state  of  mind 
of  Protestants  that  the  optimists  feel  for 
pessimists,  the  religious  for  the  unbelieving. 
Each  thinks  the  heretic  in  parlous  state  and 
fancies  he  must  be  secretly  disturbed  by  it, 
when  of  a  truth  the  heretic  is  simply  amused 
by  this  anxiety  for  his  welfare,  and  cheer 
fully  certain  of  his  own  superiority. 

SEPTEMBER  18. 

M—  — ,  who  has,  with  some  flourish  of 
trumpet  and  tuck  of  drum,  gone  over  to 
Rome,  is  the  daughter  of  a  Presby-  Moral 
terian  minister,  I  am  told,  and,  what  pauPerism- 
is  odder  still,  is  a  very  clever  and  humorous 
creature.  One  can  discount  the  parson  and 
the  cleverness,  but  a  humorous  Protestant 
'verting  is  more  difficult  to  understand. 

I  tried  hard  to  get  some  explanation  from 
her  as  to  her  point  of  view,  but  she  was 
entirely  vague.  Fancy  —  she  has  a  patron 
saint,  beads,  etc.!  One  can  only  gape. 

Very  probably  every  one  is  at  birth  - 
no  matter  what  the  environment  —  either 
Catholic  or  Protestant  by  nature.  To  many 
it  is  an  absolute  necessity  that  someone  else 
should  furnish  their  spiritual  and  mental 
257 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

support.  With  these,  no  matter  how  fre 
quently  one  sets  them  on  their  feet  their 
knees  will  give  under  them;  no  matter  how 
often  one  starts  them  in  spiritual  business 
one  has  eventually  to  come  again  to  the 
rescue.  To  such  an  one  the  perpetual 
supervision  and  personal  tyranny  of  the 
Catholic  Church  must  seem  deliciously 
comfortable  and  protecting.  No  wonder 
they  are  drawn  to  it  across  all  barriers. 

To  the  born  Protestant  such  bondage  is  as 
intolerable  as  spoon  feeding  and  a  wheeled 
chair  would  be  to  an  athlete.  Whatever  the 
moral  or  mental  situation  may  be  he  must  deal 
with  it  for  himself  —  must  stand  on  his  own 
feet  —  use  his  own  moral  muscles.  Neither 
can  ever  understand  the  other.  Their  whole 
attitude  toward  life  is  directly  opposed. 
Each  seeks  what  his  nature  demands. 

SEPTEMBER  30. 

The  book-club  has  eliminated  Marcel 
Prevost's  "Manage  de  Julianne"  as  too 
On  a  Cer-  naughty  for  our  perusal  —  though 

tain  Lack      not  untjj  we  ^a(j  fljj  rea(j  j,    tQ 
of  Humour 

in  French-   how  undesirable  it  was. 


men.  To      wnat 

258 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

"robust  nature"  it  seemed  merely  deli- 
ciously  funny  and  human,  and  I  am  not 
fond  of  French  fiction  as  a  rule.  Most  of  it 
leaves  in  my  mind  only  a  sense  of  dreary 
nastiness  —  a  sort  of  more  closely  knit  Hall 
Caine-ism,  with  his  sloppiness  of  style  left 
out.  Yet  a  good  many  of  one's  contem 
poraries  profess  to  find  French  fiction  vastly 
superior  to  English  literature  of  the  same 
sort:  to  find  Balzac  a  greater  artist  than 
Thackeray;  but  those  who  make  this  asser 
tion  are,  I  find,  generally  lacking  in  humour 
and  imagination  themselves,  and  therefore 
blind  to  a  whole  side  of  life.  They,  of 
nature,  think  marionettes  liker  life  than 
beings  of  flesh  and  blood.  Balzac's  dry, 
minute  descriptions  give  them  an  impression 
of  reality.  To  hear  that  a  man  had  a  red 
nose,  had  iron-grey  hair  growing  thin  on  top, 
and  that  his  bottle-green  trousers  wrinkled 
at  the  knees,  gives  them  the  sensation  that 
Balzac  is  presenting  them  with  "a  slice  of 
life"  —not  being  aware,  it  would  seem,  that 
this  might  be  equally  truthful  a  description 
of  a  wax  figure  at  Madame  Tussaud's. 
Such  matters  as  these  are  not  the  essentials 
that  differentiate  a  man  from  his  fellows. 
259 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

Henry  James  thinks  this  elaboration  of 
detail  is  Balzac's  "strongest  gift"  and  adds, 
"Dickens  often  sets  a  figure  before  us  with 
extraordinary  vividness,  but  the  outline  is 
fantastic  and  arbitrary  —  we  but  half  believe 
in  it."  It  seems  to  me  that  James  has,  like 
Balzac,  but  a  half  developed  sense  of  life. 
He  too  is  metriculous  in  his  efforts  to  make 
one  see  and  feel  what  he  wishes  to  convey, 
because  he  only  half  feels  and  sees  it  him 
self;  though  he  is  concerned  rather  with  emo 
tions  than  objects,  and  in  spite  of  the  labour 
and  care  expended  by  each,  but  a  shadowy 
impression  remains.  Dickens  can  dash  in 
a  few  broad,  half  caricatured  lines  of  a  por 
trait  because  the  figure  he  wishes  to  show 
is  so  vivid  to  his  own  eye  he  feels  it  only 
necessary  to  indicate  it  broadly  to  make 
others  recognize  it.  Uncle  Pumblechook  in 
"Great  Expectations"  is  suggested,  as  far 
as  written  description  goes,  in  merest  outline 
—  "A  large,  hard-breathing,  middle-aged, 
slow  man,  with  a  mouth  like  a  fish,  dull 
staring  eyes,  and  sandy  hair  standing  upright 
on  his  head"  -yet  after  half  a  page  of  his 
conversation  and  his  welcome  to  Pip  at  the 
funeral,  "breathing  sherry  and  crumbs," 
260 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

one  needs  no  more.     The  man  lives  and 
moves.     One  knows  him  inside  and  out. 

James  speaks  again  of  Balzac's  "  choking 
one  with  his  bricks  and  mortar,"  and  thinks 
his  houses,  his  rooms,  his  towns,  "un 
equalled  for  vividness  of  presentation,  of 
realization."  To  an  imaginative  reader 
they  are  as  dry  and  superfluous  as  a  real- 
estate  agent's  pamphlets;  one  has  a  sense 
of  the  author's  heavy  straining  effort  to 
make  the  places  palpable  to  his  own  mental 
vision.  It  is  the  weary  iteration  of  the 
bore,  who  having  no  imagination  can  leave 
nothing  to  that  of  his  hearer. 

Dickens  somewhere  describes  a  room 
merely  by  telling  how  the  winking  fire  was 
reflected  in  every  smooth  object.  The  fire 
winks  cheerily;  the  pewters  winking  dully, 
as  if  afraid  of  being  suspected  of  not  seeing 
the  joke;  the  furniture  twinkling  slyly  from 
every  polished  point,  etc.,  etc.,  in  Dickens's 
well-known  fashion  of  pursuing  a  happy 
fancy  round  and  round.  There  is  not  one 
word  of  catalogue  of  the  room's  contents, 
yet  it  remains  forever  as  vivid  in  the  reader's 
memory  as  a  chamber  with  which  one  is 
intimately  familiar. 

261 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

Bulwer  says  that  "French  nature  is  not 
human  nature,"  and  if  human  nature  was 
necessarily  the  Anglo-Saxon  conception  of 
life  it  would  be  true.  Nothing  so  points 
French  heterogeneousness  from  ourselves 
as  the  attitude  of  our  two  chosen  masters 
of  the  novel,  Balzac  and  Thackeray.  Not 
a  gleam  of  humour  ever  irradiates  for  a 
moment  the  pages  of  the  former.  A  mere 
glimmer  would  make  impossible  his  story 
of  the  young  man  who  endeavours  to  com 
promise  a  pretty  woman,  whose  refusal  to 
yield  to  his  dishonourable  suggestions  so 
puzzles  and  disgusts  him  that  he  can  only 
explain  her  coldness  as  being  the  probable 
results  of  some  secret  but  mortal  disease! 
...  A  lover  abducts  a  reluctant  fair  by 
mingled  force  and  stratagem,  and  attempts 
to  brand  her  with  hot  irons;  accompanying 
this  gentle  gallantry  with  the  mummeries 
of  a  thirteenth-century  Inquisition.  This 
picturesque  proof  of  devotion  so  touches 
the  lady  that  she  promptly  grovels  in  an 
agony  of  affection  for  this  chivalrous  ad 
mirer.  .  .  . 

All  this  is  told  with  perfect  gravity,  the 
author  having  not  the  smallest  suspicion  of 
262 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

its  absurdity  —  and  yet  there  be  actually 
Anglo-Saxons  who  solemnly  announce  that 
Balzac  knew  human  nature  to  its  depths. 
French  nature,  perhaps;  certainly  not 
ours.  .  .  . 

A  spinster  lives  twenty  years  in  a  family, 
all  of  whose  members  she  venomously 
hates,  and  not  one  of  them  suspect  her  un 
selfish  devotion  until  she  aids  in  humiliat 
ing  them  and  wrecking  their  fortunes  .  .  . 
Madame  Hulot  is  a  saint,  and  yet  at  fifty 
years  of  age  offers  her  person  to  a  repulsive 
scoundrel  in  order  to  provide  a  marriage 
portion  for  her  daughter;  Balzac  evidently 
considering  this  one  of  her  noblest  acts. 

The  point  at  which  one  finds  the  widest 
divergence  of  the  French  and  English  atti 
tudes  toward  life  is  in  the  essay  made  by 
each  of  these  chosen  spokesmen  to  show  us 
the  adventuress.  Taine,  who  honestly  tried 
to  see  English  literature  from  English  eyes 
and  interpret  it  to  his  countrymen,  breaks 
down  entirely  when  he  reaches  this  angle 
of  vision. 

He  says:  "There  is  a  personage  unani 
mously  recognized  as  Thackeray's  master 
piece,  Becky  Sharp.  .  .  .  Let  us  compare 
263 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

her  with  a  similar  personage  of  Balzac  in 
'Les  Parents  Pauvre,'  Valerie  Marneff. 
The  difference  in  the  two  works  will  exhibit 
the  difference  in  the  two  literatures"  — 
and  they  do  indeed. 

Valerie  to  the  English  reader  is  the  old 
commonplace,  stereotyped  adventuress  of  the 
melodrama.  One  can  imagine  none  save 
those  as  vile  and  stupid  as  herself  being 
deceived  by  such  a  greedy,  outrageous  crea 
ture.  The  descriptions  of  her  looks  and 
behaviour  smack  of  the  unhumorous  shil 
ling  shocker.  She  gives  glances  from  be 
neath  "her  long  eyelids  like  the  glare  of 
cannon  seen  through  smoke!"  .  .  .  and 
again  "her  eyes  flashed  like  daggers." 

Such  figures  of  speech  sound  like  the 
pompous  rhodomontade  of  a  Laura  Jean 
Libby,  yet  Taine  quotes  them  with  much 
admiration. 

Becky,  Taine  finds  incomprehensible. 
He  complains  that  Thackeray  "degrades 
her"  when  he  laughingly  reveals  her  secret 
vulgar  shifts.  Also  he  is  resentful  because 
her  carefully  built  schemes  crumble  one  by 
one  like  houses  of  cards,  being  ignorant, 
apparently,  of  that  choice  old  utilitarian 
264 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

proverb  as  to  Honesty  being  the  best  policy, 
founded  upon  a  very  general  observation 
that  the  same  cleverness  and  energy  em 
ployed  by  adventurers  in  their  nefarious 
schemes  pays  a  far  higher  rate  of  interest 
when  turned  to  legitimate  pursuits. 

The  half  affectionate,  half  contemptuous 
humour  with  which  her  creator  regards 
Becky  shocks  Taine.  With  his  French 
passion  for  logical  completeness  he  cannot 
comprehend  that  Thackeray's  vision  for 
truth  should  make  him  capable  of  admitting 
and  admiring  that  arch-adventuress's  good 
qualities, —  the  very  qualities  of  her  defects 
which  made  her  career  of  deception  possible. 
The  consistent  monster  Valerie  could  delude 
no  one,  while  Becky's  patience,  gaiety,  and 
good  nature  made  Rawdon  Crawley's  devo 
tion  plausible,  and  forced  even  Lord  Steyne, 
who  recognized  her  baseness,  after  a  fashion 
to  respect  and  like  her,  and  consent  to  be 
used  by  her,  until  —  by  a  fundamental 
impulse  of  womanliness  -  "she  admired  her 
husband  standing  there,  grand,  brave,  vic 
torious,"  above  the  prostrate  body  of  her 
seducer.  It  is  that  same  underlying  woman 
liness  in  Becky  —  of  which  Valerie  lacked 
265 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

even  an  intimation  —  which  makes  her 
human  and  real.  Its  absence  leaves  Valerie 
incredible  and  shadowy. 

Take  again  Lear  and  Goriot.  The 
latter's  children  have  no  excuse  whatever 
for  their  crimes  of  greed  and  selfishness. 
They  are  grotesque  succubi,  while  the  as 
tounding  wickedness  of  Regan  and  Goneril 
is  made  credible  by  Lear's  own  violent 
foolishness  and  vanity.  His  tempestuous 
senility  is  of  the  sort  that  wakes  the  blindest 
revolt  of  youth,  which  is  always  restless 
under  the  dominance  of  age,  a  restlessness 
likely  to  deepen  to  cruelty  when  age  is 
unrestrained  by  wisdom  or  dignity. 

A  Frenchman  once  complained  to  me 
bitterly  of  the  comic  porter  in  Macbeth, 
who  comes  grumbling  to  unlock  the  gate  so 
soon  after  the  horror  of  the  murder  of 
Duncan.  To  him  the  touch  of  comedy 
seemed  vulgar  and  inept.  It  was  impossible 
to  make  him  understand  how  to  the  Anglo- 
Saxon  mind  this  veracious  touch  of  comedy 
jostling  tragedy  but  heightened  the  dra 
matic  poignancy  of  the  play.  This  inca 
pacity  to  see  the  humorous  contrasts  of 
life  and  character  is  generally  characteristic 
266 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

of  youth  with  its  narrow  inexperience  of 
realities,  and  the  French  and  the  unhumor- 
ous  of  our  own  race  seem  never  to  outgrow 
this  juvenility. 

OCTOBER  15. 

I  wonder  if  anyone  will  ever  muster  up 
sufficient  courage  to  write  the  true  his 
tory  of  the  ferocious  egotism  en-  xhe 
gendered  in  the  human  heart  by  a  Value 
belief  in  human  immortality.  The 
most  cynical  might  well  shrink  from  the 
sorrowful  task.  Self-preservation,  sup 
posedly  the  first  law  of  nature,  is  but  a 
feeble  instinct  when  placed  in  comparison, 
for  motherhood,  patriotism,  sexual  love; 
a  thousand  minor  passions  will  induce  hu 
man  beings  to  abandon  their  inheritance 
in  the  warm  precincts  of  the  cheerful  day, 
but  all  that  a  man  hath,  and  all  that  his 
friends,  and  the  wife  of  his  bosom,  and  the 
children  of  his  loins  have,  will  he  give  for 
that  wretched  little  flyspecked  object  he 
calls  his  soul. 

Buckle    rather    shocked    a    pious   world 
when  he  announced  that  in  many  cases  the 
best  kings,  considered   from  the   point  of 
267 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

view  of  their  private  characters,  made  the 
worst  rulers;  but  all  history  is  loud  with 
this  truth.  The  moment  anyone  in  power 
began  to  consider  the  question  of  his  soul 
with  seriousness,  tears  and  blood  soon  began 
to  flow.  A  ruler  who  had  strong  secular 
tendencies  usually  had  some  sort  of  con 
sideration  for  human  happiness,  but  one 
who  turned  his  mind  to  what  was  called 
"higher  things"  waded  through  the  wretch 
edness  of  those  in  his  power  with  noble 
insouciance.  Henri  IV.,  who  was  cheer 
fully  indifferent  as  to  whether  he  heard 
preaching  by  parsons  or  the  mass  of  priests, 
provided  he  might  have  Paris  for  his  capital, 
quieted  the  fratricidal  religious  conflicts  of 
France  and  made  life  happy  for  his  subjects; 
and  Henry  II.  of  England,  who  was  the 
only  one  of  the  Angevin  Kings  entirely 
unconcerned  about  his  immortal  future,  did 
more  for  England  than  any  ruler  since 
Alfred,  and  would  have  trebled  those  wise 
secular  benefits  had  a-Becket  and  the  rest 
of  the  troublesome  clergy  permitted  it. 

I    have    been    roused    to    these    moral 
generalizations    by    Quiller-Couch's    novel, 
"Hetty  Wesley."     It's  a  poignant  book. 
268 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

Hetty  was  the  sister  of  the  founders  of 
Methodism,  and  Quiller-Couch  has  availed 
himself,  in  writing  the  book,  of  the  letters 
and  papers  of  that  remarkable  family.  He 
has  told  his  tale  very  simply  and  with  an 
artist's  comprehension  and  sympathy,  set 
ting  down  nothing  in  malice  and  leaving 
the  reader  to  draw  his  own  inferences. 

The  picture  of  that  damp  Epworth  Rec 
tory  where  Charles  and  John  were  born 
(two  out  of  the  ten  living  children, 
several  others  had  died  early)  makes 
the  Bronte  Parsonage,  over  which  it  is  the 
fashion  to  shiver,  seem  like  an  amiable 
idyl  by  contrast.  Samuel  Wesley,  the  father, 
was  passionately  religious.  The  first  of 
his  concerns  was  the  saving  of  his  own 
soul  for  immortal  happiness,  the  second 
was  the  saving  of  as  many  other  like  heirs 
to  bliss  as  possible,  and  a  part  of  this  second 
ambition  implied  the  training  of  his  sons 
for  the  ministry.  In  pursuit  of  these  ends 
he  sacrificed  the  comfort  and  happiness  of 
his  wife  and  seven  lovely  daughters  with 
a  ruthless  persistency  and  consistency  that 
would  be  incredible  did  we  not  have  his  own 
complacent  writings  in  testimony  thereto. 
269 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

The  sons  found  his  example  worthy  of 
imitation,  it  appears.  Of  late,  apropos  of  the 
Wesley  Centennial,  one  has  heard  much  of 
John  Wesley,  of  his  tangled  love  affairs  and 
his  amazing  marriage,  and  one  can't  but 
be  conscious  of  a  secret  liking  for  that 
tempestuous  termagant,  Mrs.  John,  because 
that  she  after  a  fashion  avenged  those  eight 
unlucky  kinswomen  whose  lives  he  so  com 
placently  sucked  dry  to  nourish  his  religious 
aspirations. 

One  has  wondered,  when  reading  them, 
if  those  meek  and  loyal  addresses  from  the 
scaffold,  made  to  Henry  VIII.  by  the  inno 
cent  victims  of  his  bloodthirstiness,  could 
have  been  genuine  documents.  They  con 
tradict  all  one  knows  of  human  nature  in 
their  humble  acquiescence  and  submissive 
affection;  but  here  in  this  book  we  have 
Hetty  Wesley's  own  tender  appeal  to  her 
father  —  a  father  who  had  ruthlessly  cast 
her  into  a  lifelong  hell  —  to  forgive  what 
he  called  a  sin,  really  only  a  girl's  generous 
foolish  mistake,  and  we  have  also  his  answer. 
An  answer  which  would  have  made  even  Tu 
dor  Henry  blush  for  its  cruelty.  One  could 
almost  wish  that  there  was  somewhere  an 
270 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

immortal  part  of  Samuel  Wesley,  burning 
eternally  in  the  knowledge  of  himself  as  he 
really  was.  Mrs.  John  Wesley  saves  us  the 
need  of  wishing  that  Hetty's  brother  had  a 
soul. 

After  all,  this  is  but  one  of  thousands  of 
grim  stories  of  human  beings  trampling 
upon  the  lives  and  hearts  of  their  fellows 
in  the  endeavour  to  achieve  for  themselves 
an  infinity  of  bliss.  To  my  heretical  mind 
such  behaviour  for  such  an  end  seems  inex 
pressibly  sordid,  vulgar,  and  selfish.  I  at 
least  prefer  to  be  one  with  the  dumb  beasts 
that  perish,  but  who  pass  away  knowing 
that  no  creature  has  ever  suffered  a  pang 
in  order  that  they  may  have  saved  their 
souls  alive. 

Time  is  not  long  enough  for  me      A  Grateful 
To  hate  mine  enemy  perfectly,      Spaniard. 

But  God  is  of  infinite  mercy  and  he 
To  Time  has  added  Eternity. 

OCTOBER  16. 

I  reproached  J-  -  last  night  for  send 
ing  me  to  dinner  with  E—  — .  :*This  is 
the  third  time  you  have  done  it," 

J  .      .  Bores. 

I  grumbled,  "and  it  is  just  twice 

too  often.     None  of  the  other  women  will 

271 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

talk  to  him,  and  because  I  treat  him  de 
cently  you  take  advantage  of  my  good 
nature." 

"Oh,  but  my  dear,"  she  countered  imp 
ishly,  "you  know  you  are  so  juicy  with 
bores!" 

Of  course,  that  was  true,  though  there  is 
nothing  I  envy  more  than  the  courage  of 
ruthlessness  —  one  of  the  first  laws  of  social 
self-preservation.  I  am  always  the  helpless 
prey  of  bores.  They  drink  as  they  choose 
from  my  "sacred  fount,"  though  it  is  shallow 
enough,  heaven  knows!  for  me  to  need  all  its 
contents  for  myself.  If  this  condition  of 
affairs  arose  from  good  nature  I  should  not 
be  ashamed  of  it,  but  it  is  all  sheer  coward 
liness.  My  imagination  is  so  vivid  that  I 
can  feel  the  corroding  humiliation  of  neglect 
and  indifference  to  the  poor  souls  as  if  it 
were  being  applied  to  my  own  skin,  and  I 
labour  on,  crying  protests  inwardly,  rather 
than  free  myself  by  a  moment  of  brutality. 

'Tell  bores  who  waste  my  time  and 
me"  that  the  best  hours  of  my  life  have 
been  burned  in  their  dull  fires.  Again  and 
again  have  I  lost  my  opportunity  to  seek 
the  friendship  of  some  adorably  amusing 
272 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

creature  while  sweating  to  pull  the  oar  that 
was  the  bore's  own  proper  task. 

This  indolent  cowardice  enfeebles  me  in 
a  dozen  ways;  makes  it  impossible  for  me 
to  train  my  dogs  for  fear  of  hurting  their 
feelings,  and  to  discharge  a  servant  costs 
me  a  white  night  and  a  fausse  digestion. 
It  is  not  kindliness,  it  is  only  that  I  feel  their 
discomfort  more  than  they  do  themselves. 

NOVEMBER  7. 

H—    -  told  a  curious  story  last  night  of 
the  bobstay  on  his  yacht,  which  time  after 
time  rusted,  broke,  and  betrayed   Emotions 
him  at  critical  moments  of  racing,   and 
Replacing  with  the  best  material   Oxydiza- 
and   by   the    best    workmen   was 
futile,  though  all  the  rest  of  the  wire  rigging 
remained  intact.     It  seemed  a  "hoodoo" 
until  it  was  discovered  to  be  due  to  oxydiza- 
tion  from  a  bolt  which  touched  a  copper 

plate  on  the  stem.     F said  it  was  easy 

to  see  how,  before  the  chemical  action  of 
steel  and  copper  were  understood,  the  most 
sensible  and  logical  mind  might  be  driven 
to  attribute  such  a  thing  to  witchcraft,  and 
it  occurred  to  me  that  perhaps  when  we 
273 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

know  more  of  the  chemistry  of  psychology, 
many  of  our  emotional  puzzles  will  be  more 
easily  solved.  Jealousy,  anger,  suspicion, 
ingratitude,  it  will  then  be  easy  to  correct 
by  some  simple  act  of  insulation.  We  know 
that  many  evil  moral  tendencies  are  caused 
by  pressure  upon  certain  portions  of  the 
brain,  and  my  own  personal  experience  and 
long  observation  makes  me  confident  that 
half  the  baser  passions  are  due  to  acidity  in 
the  blood.  It  makes  one  slow  to  indulge 
one's  emotions  when  one  realizes  they  may 
simply  be  the  result  of  a  lack  of  a  therapeutic 
alkali.  With  such  a  conviction  one  will 
generally  wait  for  the  slower  and  more 
balanced  action  of  reason. 

What  a  great  alteration  would  take  place 
in  the  history  of  the  world  if  it  could  be 
rewritten  from  the  point  of  view  of  what 
the  doctors  describe  as  "the  gouty  acid 
diathesis." 

Bess  of  Hardwicke's  marital  troubles, 
which  convulsed  all  England,  and  even 
drew  Elizabeth  and  Burleigh  into  the  tur 
moil,  were  due  entirely  to  the  unhappy 
Earl's  gout,  as  no  one  can  doubt  after  read 
ing  his  letters.  Charles  V.  was  driven  from 
274 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

his  throne  by  it,  and  Napoleon's  gout  lost 
him  the  battle  of  Leipsic  and  set  his  feet 
in  "slippery  places/'  Henry  VIII. Js  shoes 
were  not  slashed  without  reason,  and  Pitt 
was  lost  to  England  when  she  most  needed 
him  by  the  same  agent.  These  are  but  a 
few  of  the  notorious  examples,  but  how 
many  wars,  revolutions,  massacres,  had 
their  origin  in  that  same  corroding  oxydiza- 
tion  of  the  spirit  of  man  we  will  probably 
never  fully  determine. 

NOVEMBER  10. 

Dear  Sister  in  Christ:  Abelard 

God  send  you  peace  from  Heaven  1  to  Heloise. 

I  would  that  to  your  restless  heart 
His  blessed  peace  was  given, 
And  that  you  found 
In  contemplation  of  His  love 
Balm  for  that  wound 
That  ever  frets  you  sore. 
'Twere  meet  you  wore 
Much  sack  cloth, 

And  with  scourge  and  fasting  drove 
This  passion  from  your  soul  .  .  . 
Christ's  Bride  thou  art; 
Therefore  give  Him  the  whole. 
I  charge  thou  keep'st  back  not  any  part 
Of  His  just  due  to  spend  upon  a  worm  .  .  . 
Nay,  woman!  would'st  thou  bring  on  me  a  curse 
For  that  I  stand  between  thy  soul  and  God  ?  .  .  . 
Thy  love  for  me  is  but  a  thing  perverse. 
Cast  it  forth  from  thee,  or  a  heavy  rod 

275 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

May  prove  that  God  is  still  a  jealous  God. 

But  that  you  are  a  woman,  and  infirm 

Of  will  and  purpose,  I  should  say 

Some  bitter  words  to  purge  you  of  this  sin! 

Natheless  each  day 

I  painful  penance  do 

For  that  'twas  I  who  led  you  first  astray  — 

(For  which  great  sin  may  He  my  soul  assoil!) 

And  wrestle  mightily  each  night  in  prayer 

That  Christ  may  yet  your  stubborn  heart  subdue 

To  His  sweet  will,  and  —  the  sharp  fret  and  coil 

Of  earth  cast  forth  —  He  then  may  enter  in 

To  find  a  garnished  chamber,  and  an  altar  fair  .  .  . 

—  Nay,  now,  bethink  you! 

Love  like  yours  is  grievous  sin, 

And  the  time  wasteth  swift  toward  death. 

All  love  is  but  a  breath 

Which  clouds  the  glass  that  we  see  darkly  through  — 

When  you  to  Heaven  shall  win 

And  there  see  face  to  face  your  risen  Lord, 

Wilt  know  'twas  but  the  hot  fume  of  a  word 

Spake  by  a  devil,  dimmed  your  earthly  glass  .  .  . 

In  essence  love  is  sin!  — 

Save  only  love  of  God. 

It  is  a  gin, 

Set  by  the  Evil  One  to  snare  the  feet 

Of  those  who  haste  toward  Heaven, 

By  its  false  likeness  to  the  spiritual  love, 

And  by  it  man  is  driven 

Down  the  steep  slope  to  Hell. 

'Tis  thus  when  sanctioned  by  the  Church;  how  then 

Of  love  like  thine,  which  is  accursed  of  men, 

And  doubly  cursed   by  God  ?  .  .  . 

Last  night  in  dreams  I  trod 

Up  the  long  windings  of  the  heavenly  stair, 

And  heard  the  angels  singing  loud  and  sweet, 

And  neared  the  gate,  when  sudden  both  my  feet 

Were  caught  amid  the  tangles  of  thy  hair,  — 

276 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

Spread  like  a  cruel  web  across  my  path,  — 

In  which  I  struggled,  mad  with  woe  and  wrath, 

And  could  not  free  me;  so  at  last  I  fell, 

Stumbling  and  plunging  down  to  blackest  Hell, 

Wherein  I  cursed  the  hour  I  saw  thy  face, 

And  most  I  cursed  the  hour,  the  day,  the  place 

When  thou  didst  give  me  love  .  .  . 

Waking  then,  I  strove 

For  holier  thoughts,  and  could  at  last  forgive 

The  wrong  thou  didst  me. 

But  no  more,  I  prithee,  vex  me  with  thy  tale 

Of  love.     It  wearieth  me,  and  henceforth  I  must  live 

In  larger  peace,  or  I  may  not  prevail 

Within  the  Schools 

Against  the  babbling  of  the  narrow  fools 

Who  blindly  are  withstanding  my  new  light 

Upon  the  Divine  Essence's  nature,  and  my  clasp 

Of  the  ringed  Trinitarian  mysteries.     Matters  your  slight 

Woman's  comprehension  may  not  grasp  .  .  . 

Farewell.     Neglect  not  prayer. 

My  good  Lord  Abbot :  —  But  this  once     Heloise 

I  speak,  and  then  no  more.  to  Abelard. 

I  must  not  'gainst  the  lore 

Of  the  great  Schools 

Set  my  weak  cries 

For  warmth  and  life  and  love. 

The  snow  now  lies 

Deep  round  the  Paraclete, 

Where  from  my  pale  nuns  rise 

In  never  ceasing  chant  of  nones  and  primes 

Incense  of  prayers  to  ease  the  need  of  God 

For  broken  contrite  hearts  and  dropping  tears. 

And  sometimes  I  have  fears 

That  each  one  wears 

'Neath  her  long  habit 

As  sad  a  heart  as  mine, 

For  in  their  eyes, 

277 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

Which  each  unto  the  skies 

Lifts  many  times  each  day, 

I  see  desire  for  love, 

A  gift  they  pray 

From  God,  since  man  gives  not 

That  which  they  need. 

I  watch  them  from  my  carven  chair, 

While  lingering  on  a  bead, 

And  add,  beneath  my  hood, 

Beads  to  my  rosary  of  tears 

To  think  how  good 

To  each  'twould  seem  to  change 

This  Latin  drone  and  censer's  clank 

For  the  dear  homely  noise 

Around  the  hearth 

Of  little  girls  and  boys  — 

For  all  these  weary  prayers 

The  daily  household  cares 

For  some  tired  labourer 

Who  earned  their  bread. 

Oh,  little  hands  and  feet!  — 

There  is  no  room 

Within  this  cloistered  tomb 

Wherein  we  worship  God, 

For  one  dear  curly  head. 


Sometimes  at  prayers 

A  vision  seems  to  rise  — 

Borne  on  an  air 

Mayhap  that  blows  from  Hell. 

And  then  I  see  the  great  Lord  Jove 

And  all  His  mighty  peers 

Who  ruled  so  many  years 

Above  the  ancient  heavens, 

Dwindle,  and  fade,  and  pass  away, 

And  only  Love  remains  — 

I  see  the  doctors  of  the  ancient  schools, 

278 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

Great  Egypt's  sages,  those  who  made  the  rules 

Of  wisdom  in  the  Academe, 

Fade  also  like  a  dream; 

All  their  wise  thoughts  grow  foolishness 

And  all  their  learning  turns  to  dust, 

And  only  Love  remains 

Forever  young,  forever  wise  and  great, 

And  in  the  time  to  come 

I  see  the  same  strong  fate 

Seize  on  our  Mighty  God 

Who  binds  us  in  his  chains, 

And  makes  our  love  a  sin 

To  drive  our  souls  to  Hell, 

He  too,  with  all  his  doctors 

Fades  —  and  only  Love  remains 

Forever  and  forever.     Fare  you  well. 

NOVEMBER  30. 

The  Japanese  possess  a  delightful  word 
— Yumei  Mujitsu  —  which  signifies  "Hav 
ing  -  the  -  Name  -  but  -  not-the  -Real-  Yumei 
ity."  They  use  it  to  express  cer-  Mujitsu. 
tain  assumptions — such,  for  example,  as  the 
claim  of  the  Mikado's  descent  from  the 
Sun  Goddess,  which,  like  the  formulae  of 
Algebra,  achieve  desired  results  though 
they  recognize  that  in  itself  it  has  no  exist 
ence.  How  valuable  such  a  word  would 
be  to  express  the  attitude  of  the  Sentiment 
alist  regarding  a  coloured  man  named 
Booker  Washington,  much  discussed  of  late. 

Now  if  there  is  one  creature  more  than 
279 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

a  saint  whom  I  fear  and  distrust  it  is  the 
Sentimentalist,  whom  Hawthorne  pungently 
characterizes  as  "that  steel  machine  of  the 
Devil's  own  make."  The  ruthless  heart- 
lessness  of  the  Sentimentalist  would  be 
unbelievable  if  one  had  not  seen  it  with  one's 
own  eyes.  Take,  for  example,  the  Abo 
litionists.  To  gratify  their  own  emotions 
they  caused  the  death  of  a  million  men,  the 
infliction  of  wounds  and  pain  that  make  the 
imagination  shudder,  and  all  that  long  suc 
ceeding  anguish  of  a  people  —  the  grief, 
the  poverty,  humiliation,  and  despair  that 
burned  itself  indelibly  upon  the  hearts  of 
those  who  shared  it. 

Stevenson  —  that  misunderstood  moral 
ist  now  chiefly  remembered  as  a  story 
teller!  —  put  his  finger  upon  the  enigma  of 
the  Sentimentalist's  cruelty: 

"Everywhere  some  virtue  cherished 
or  affected,  everywhere  some  decency  of 
thought  or  carriage,  everywhere  the  ensign 
of  man's  ineffectual  goodness:  —  Ah,  if  I 
could  show  you  these!  if  I  could  show  you 
these  men  and  women  all  the  world  over 
.  .  .  clinging  in  the  brothel  and  on  the 
scaffold  to  some  rag  of  honour,  the  poor 
280 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

jewel  of  their  souls!  .  .  .  They  may  seek 
to  escape  and  yet  they  cannot  .  .  .  they 
are  condemned  to  some  nobility,  all  their 
lives  the  desire  of  good  is  at  their  heels,  the 
implacable  hunter.  .  .  .  To  touch  the  heart 
of  his  mystery  we  find  in  him  the  thought 
of  something  owing  to  himself,  to  his  neigh 
bour,  to  his  God." 

The  Sentimentalist,  along  with  all  his 
kind,  is  hunted  by  that  implacable  need  of 
virtue.  To  satisfy  it  he  seizes  upon  the 
wrongs  done  by  others,  and  in  his  hot  de 
nunciation  of  another's  sin,  in  his  clamour 
for  its  punishment,  he  experiences  the  warm 
ennobling  glow  of  personal  merit. 

The  pietist  will  meticulously  perform 
rites  and  ceremonies  in  this  same  need 
to  soothe  the  imperious  call  within  him 
for  some  justification  of  his  life.  Having 
washed  and  bowed  and  recited,  his  sins 
of  practice  trouble  him  but  little  —  those 
genuflections  have  made  his  balance  good 
in  the  book  of  virtue.  But  the  Sentimental 
ist  cannot  content  himself  with  pale  cere 
monies.  He  is  by  instinct  devouring  and 
bloody,  but  his  soul  cringes  before  his  in 
ward  monitor.  By  fierce  denunciation  of 
281 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

the  sins  he  has  no  mind  to  he  can  soothe  his 
desire  to  inflict  pain  in  perfect  content,  up 
borne  by  a  consciousness  of  his  own  right 
eousness.  Torquemada  was  a  type,  John 
Brown  of  Ossawatamie  another;  both  were 
criminal  paranoics  tortured  by  desire  for 
blood  and  for  self-justification.  Real  good 
ness  does  not  stimulate  the  Sentimentalist's 
emotions  —  it  gives  no  opportunity  for  the 
outcries  that  warm  his  heart  with  a  con 
sciousness  of  rectitude. 

The  Boer  war  was  a  great  opportunity 
for  the  American  Sentimentalist.  Protest 
ing  against  the  suppression  of  a  Republic, 
he  could  forget  his  own  suppression  of  the 
Confederate  Republic  and  of  the  nascent 
government  of  the  Philippines.  Execrat 
ing  the  burning  of  farmhouses  in  the  Veldt, 
he  could  ignore  the  track  of  smoking  deso 
lation  that  marked  Sherman's  march  through 
Georgia  or  Sheridan's  raid  in  Virginia. 
Criticism  of  British  greed  for  gold  kept 
him  cheerfully  superior  to  the  contrast  of 
the  gift  of  fifteen  millions  and  the  patient 
labour  spent  by  the  English  to  repatriate 
the  Boer  and  start  him  again  in  life,  with 
the  protest  he  and  his  kind  made  against 
282 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

General  Grant's  willingness  to  leave  to  the 
Southern  soldier  his  starved  horse  as  a 
means  of  reaching  his  ruined  home. 

Conscience,  demanding  of  the  Sentiment 
alist  the  bread  of  uprightness,  he  prodigally 
offers  it  a  stone  upon  which  to  break  its 
gnawing  teeth. 

The  African  brother  has  long  been  one 
of  the  most  valued  of  the  Sentimentalist's 
resources.  Passionately  generous  demands 
for  the  negro's  equality  have  made  it  pos 
sible  for  him  to  cordially  and  contentedly 
insult  and  oppress  his  white  fellow  country 
men. 

It  is  in  this  relation  that  the  Sentimental 
ists  find  Booker  Washington  so  greatly  to 
their  taste.  Washington,  innocent  of  their 
purposes,  of  course  is  an  admirable  and 
sensible  man,  who  has  established  an  excel 
lent  school  for  the  young  people  of  his  race. 
A  school  far  wiser  and  more  merciful  in 
conception  than  any  attempt  made  by  the 
negrophiles  to  benefit  their  proteges,  and 
all  honour  is  due  this  enlightened  ex-slave 
for  his  own  astonishing  progress  and  his 
generous  sharing  of  his  fruitful  labours 
with  his  own  people.  The  Sentimentalist 

283 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

professes  to  find  in  it  "something  godlike," 
a  "touch  of  the  divine,"  as  one  of  them 
recently  characterized  what  is,  reduced  to 
simple  facts,  the  establishing  of  an  industrial 
school  for  negroes  by  a  negro. 

DECEMBER  i. 

The  man  who  has  educated  the  negro, 

Xhe  tne    man    wno    nas    nad    in  him 

Real  really  a  touch  of  the  divine,  would 
never  appeal  to  the  Sentimentalist. 
Booker  Washington,  very  properly,  of 
course,  lives  and  lives  well  upon  the  results 
of  his  school.  He  has  claimed  from  the 
rich,  and  justly  has  received,  lavish  aid  for 
his  enterprise.  He  dresses  well,  lives  amply, 
travels  in  comfort,  is  entertained  by  Royalty 
and  Chief  Magistrates,  and  with  his  family, 
is  put  beyond  even  a  chance  of  narrow 
means  by  his  sympathizers'  lavishness.  But 
who  heeds  the  man  who  has  really  educated 
the  negro  ?  What  crowned  head  or  Presi 
dent  entertains  the  small  farmer  in  rough 
brogans  and  faded  jeans,  who  sweats  over 
his  hoe  in  the  cotton  and  tobacco  fields, 
or  in  the  steaming  rice  and  sugar-cane 
swamps,  and  who  has  in  forty  years  spent 
284 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

more  than  a  hundred  millions  upon  the 
education  of  the  negro  ?  This  is  the  man, 
and  the  son  of  the  man  who  turned  heart- 
brokenly  home  on  the  begrudged  horse 
to  fields  overgrown  and  laid  waste  —  fields 
to  which  his  conquerors,  unlike  the  English, 
contributed  no  seeds  or  implements  or 
stock  —  and  from  that  land  he  has  wrung 
by  the  hard  labour  of  his  hands  that  hundred 
millions  which  has  been  spent  in  educating 
his  ex-slave. 

He  has  lived  hardly,  in  dingy,  decaying 
houses,  he  has  eaten  of  the  coarsest,  he  has 
known  no  beauty  or  grace,  and  but  scant 
comfort,  he  has  been  clothed  in  the  plainest, 
he  has  politically  known  little  but  injury 
and  contempt  from  the  larger  and  wealthier 
half  of  his  country,  and  worst  of  all  he  has 
seen  his  sons  grow  to  manhood  but  partially 
and  inadequately  equipped  with  learning, 
because  so  large  a  portion  of  their  birth 
right  must  be  shared  in  the  teaching  of  the 
negro  in  whose  name  he  had  been  plun 
dered  and  slaughtered. 

The  touching  point  of  the  story  is  that 
it  has  all  been  done  without  any  conscious 
ness  of  special  merit.  The  duty  was  to  be 

285 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

done,  and  was  done  without  trumpets  or 
drums.  Such  silent,  patient,  unreflecting, 
unadvertised  goodness  would,  of  course, 
never  appeal  to  the  Sentimentalist.  If  he 
could  be  brought  to  see  it  'twould  merely 
disturb  his  self-satisfaction. 

It  is  only  to  the  fantastic  mind  of  a  here 
tic  that  its  meaning  appeals,  only  the  heart 
of  a  cynic  is  touched  by  the  instinctive 
heroism  of  the  white  man  of  the  South. 

DECEMBER  15. 

I  am  just  home  from  a  meeting  of  one 
of  those  literary  clubs  we  American  women 
"Oh,  so  much  affect,  in  the  absence  of 
Eloquent,  a  masculine  society,  and  we 

Just,  and  J  10 

Mighty  have  been  talking  about  Stevenson 
Death."  as  tne  poet  most  typical  of  the 
mind  of  the  nineteenth  century.  It  was 
all  that  delicious  welter  in  the  sentimen 
talities  of  the  domestic  affections  which 
any  assemblage  of  females  finds  it  impos 
sible  to  avoid;  and  we  read  aloud  to  one 
another  —  with  the  vox  kumana  lilt  turned 
on  —  all  those  decidedly  dull  little  lyrics 
in  the  "Child's  Garden  of  Verses,"  and 
came  away  with  just  that  moist  brightness 
286 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

of  the  eye,  that  wistful,  tender  "mother- 
smile,"  which  was  correct  of  the  occasion. 

I  say  we,  but  of  course  my  wicked  old 
eyes  were  as  hard  as  horn, yet, thank  heaven! 
my  unruly  tongue  uttered  not  a  note  out  of 
tune  with  the  Domestic  Symphony.  Who 
will  say  that  social  slappings  have  taught 
me  nothing  ?  Even  I  can  be  daunted  by 
the  unhappy  silences  that  so  often  greet 
my  blurted  comments,  and  by  the  soft  rustles 
of  relief  that  respond  to  the  rising  of  some 
gentle  lady,  who  will  obliquely  but  cer 
tainly  crush  me  with  her  pious  phrases, 
that  throb  with  the  warm  sweetness  of  the 
dear  old  human  platitudes,  and  which  are  re 
warded  by  applause  which  politely  accentu 
ates  my  disgrace.  .  .  .  Oh,  amiable  and 
philosophic  white  page!  To  you  I  can  be 
a  tiresome  and  protesting  bore,  sure  of  no 
strictures  in  your  silence.  Here  I  can  un 
pack  my  heart  with  words,  unrebuked. 
Here  I  can  whisper  safely  my  suspicion  that 
dear  R.  L.  S.  himself  would  have  been  con 
sumed  with  cheerful  amusement  at  our 
gentle  comments  upon  his  doughty  spirit. 

The  world  says  all  sorts  of  absurd  things 
about  Stevenson.  Some  one  the  other  day 
287 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

called  him  "an  unquenchable  Calvinist"!  - 
He  who  was  all  pagan  and  Roman.     The 
Calvinist  was  the  European  most  subdued 
by  the   Semitic  beliefs,   most  merged  into 
Oriental  preconceptions  of  life. 

Certainly  the  European  mind  in  its 
natural  state  faced  its  consciousness  of 
existence  with  no  preconceived  theories. 
Its  attitude  was  that  of  the  child.  It  found 
itself  face  to  face  with  a  great,  astonishing, 
beautiful  universe,  and  asked  itself  what 
it  must  think  of  this  universe;  how  use  its 
opportunities  therein.  The  child  stumbled 
into  a  thousand  infantile  delusions  and  mis 
conceptions,  but  its  eyes  were  unclouded, 
its  intelligence  good.  He  soon  discovered 
that  though  many  things  were  pleasant, 
these  pleasant  things,  when  used  indis 
creetly,  had  a  hidden  potentiality  of  pain. 
With  this  second  discovery,  however  - 
being  a  wise  child  —  came  no  foolish  horror 
of  all  pleasant  things;  only  an  illumination 
as  to  the  value  of  moderation. 

The  phenomena  of  age,  death,  and  decay 

left  the   child   serious,  but  not  depressed. 

These  were  not  pleasant  things,  admittedly; 

but  since  they  appeared  inevitable,  there 

288 


was  plainly  no  use  in  attempting  to  escape 
them.  The  proper  attitude  toward  such 
solemnities  was  a  manly  courage,  a  brave 
submission.  In  any  case,  the  child  con 
cluded,  with  all  the  sufferings,  contradic 
tions,  and  puzzling  inequalities  of  existence, 
at  least  for  all  those  called  upon  to  face  these 
griefs,  there  remained  some  small  space  of 
clear,  warm,  beautiful  life;  sunshine,  food, 
love,  and  —  more  and  better  than  all  — 
that  tingling,  exquisite  quiver  of  the  senses 
which  he  agreed  to  call  by  the  divine  name 
of  Beauty.  He  saw  that  the  pains,  the 
joys,  the  growth  and  blight,  decay  and  ex 
tinction,  were  not  of  his  lot  only,  but  were 
shared  by  all  his  surroundings.  Feeling 
himself  alone  neither  in  his  opportunities 
nor  his  inevitable  doom,  he  accepted  his 
fate  with  the  courageous  calm,  the  uncom 
plaining  resignation,  of  his  fellow-creatures. 
He  lived  and  he  died  as  unresentfully  as 
did  the  summer  leaves,  whose  season  of 
existence  was  so  much  briefer  than  his 
own. 

His   kinship   with   encompassing  nature 
was  so  close  that  it  touched  him  on  every 
side.     He  became  as  aware  of  the  souls  of 
289 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

all  things  about  him  as  he  was  aware  of  his 
own.  He  felt  a  similar  spirit  of  life  in  the 
trees  of  the  forest,  the  stones  of  the  moun 
tains,  in  the  sea  winds,  in  the  brooks,  the 
rivers  and  their  reeds.  He  guessed  at  their 
names,  their  loves,  their  histories,  as  one 
guesses  at  those  of  unknown  passers-by 
travelling  the  same  road.  Out  of  these 
speculations  arose  all  his  arts,  his  poetry, 
his  legends,  and  his  myths.  When  the 
moon  stooped  toward  the  western  hills  she 
leaned  in  a  passion  like  his  own  toward 
youth  and  desire.  The  blood  of  a  slain 
love  became  visible  to  him  as  it  returned 
to  the  upper  air  in  dim,  faint-scented  blos 
soms,  bearing  written  on  their  purple  leaves 
the  plaintive  ail  ail  of  her  left  mourning 
for  dead  beauty.  The  very  breeze  that 
sighed  through  the  rushes  was  the  wistful 
voice  of  one  unwisely  reluctant  of  earthly 
joy  and  pain. 

It  is  almost  impossible  for  us  —  so  long 
saturated  with  Semitic  thought  —  to  re 
create  for  ourselves  the  mind  of  the  Greeks 
and  Romans  fed  upon  the  strength  and 
beauty  of  a  noble  pantheism  —  whose  in 
terpretation  of  life  knit  their  souls  to  the 
290 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

wholesome  earth,  and  filled  them  with  zest 
to  live  and  patience  to  die  —  whose  gods 
embodied  their  own  lovely  ideals  of  youth 
immortal,  beauty  unfading,  serene  wisdom, 
the  soil's  natural  wealth,  the  vine's  purple 
joy.  Their  attention  was  fixed  upon  the 
present  life  —  their  problem  how  to  live  it 
bravely,  wisely,  richly.  All  beyond  this 
were  uncertain  shadows,  about  which  it 
was  impossible  to  know,  and  useless  to 
speculate. 

Upon  the  Etruscan  tombs,  of  all  mortuary 
monuments  the  most  lovely,  is  to  be  found 
a  revelation  clearer  than  words  of  the  Euro 
pean  attitude  toward  death  —  those  re 
cumbent  figures,  all  grace  and  peace,  carved 
by  the  hands  of  forgotten  genius  with  so 
inexplicable  a  skill  that  the  immemorial 
stone  grows  deliquescent  before  one's  eyes 
as  if  melting  and  sinking  into  the  mother 
earth.  In  them  is  no  sense  of  struggle  or  re 
bellion.  They  consent  to  extinction  as 
gently  as  autumn's  last  day  fades  into  the 
silence  and  darkness  of  winter.  Their  sea 
son  has  been  fulfilled.  They  have  lived  and 
loved,  and  they  are  proudly  willing  to  sink 
into  the  elements  from  which  they  rose. 
291 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

It  was  not  until  the  Asiatic  conquests  of 
Alexander  brought  the  mind  of  Europe  into 
contact  with  the  religions  of  the  East,  that 
this  sane  attitude  was  darkened  by  a  con 
ception  as  radically  opposite  as  the  an 
tipodes.  Nor  did  the  Roman  civilization 
suffer  a  shadow  upon  its  manhood  until  it 
in  turn  brought  home  with  its  eastern 
captives  that  fierce  egotism  that  feared 
extinction  as  an  irremediable  horror.  This 
mind  of  the  other  hemisphere  could  never 
reconcile  itself  to  the  inevitable  blotting 
out  of  its  own  individuality.  Impossible 
as  it  was  to  deny  the  incontrovertible  fact 
of  death,  it  conceived,  as  an  escape  from 
the  greatest  of  evils,  the  idea  of  the  con 
tinuance  of  its  identity  either  in  an  endless 
round  of  reincarnations,  or  as  an  impal 
pable  essence  triumphant  in  heaven  or  de 
feated  in  hell.  The  shadow  of  their  own 
terror  cast  upon  their  imagination  the 
figures  of  monstrous  deities  —  thousand- 
armed,  myriad-eyed,  maleficent,  and  unakin 
to  themselves.  Gods  not  to  be  propitiated 
by  song  and  dance,  or  the  offering  of  fruit 
and  flowers,  but  loving  to  snuff  at  altars 
drenched  in  blood;  placated  for  the  sins 
292 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

of  the  guilty  only  by  the  anguish  of  the 
innocent,  and  so  meticulous  in  their  tyranny 
as  to  require  not  only  the  abandonment  of 
all  natural  appetites,  but  pursuing  even 
unwitting  lapses  from  submission  with  eter 
nal  and  malignant  penalties. 

Oriental  egotism  flung  itself  with  equal 
persistence  against  the  limitations  of  time, 
space,  and  character.  In  the  East  arose 
the  systems  of  magic  which  sought  philoso 
pher's  stones,  elixirs  of  youth;  which  en 
deavoured  to  overcome  all  obstacles  through 
pure  intensity  of  will,  and  undertook  to 
constrain  even  the  prodigious  gods  it  had 
itself  created  by  sheer  force  of  its  own 
asceticism  and  determination. 

Rome  had  been  completely  honeycombed 
and  corrupted  by  Eastern  mysticism  before 
the  final  fatal  clash  of  faiths  occurred  under 
Constantine,  and  the  Semitic  conception 
of  the  immortal  importance  of  the  human 
individual  overthrew  European  nature-wor 
ship.  So  potent  was  this  idea  that  for  more 
than  a  thousand  years  Europe  lent  itself  to 
scorn  and  repression  of  nature,  and  at 
tempted  to  deal  with  life  as  only  a  pathway 
to  death  and  the  infinitely  more  important 
293 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

future  beyond.  The  miserable  confusion 
of  the  Dark  Ages  was  the  result  of  this 
struggle  of  the  materialistic  spirit  of  the 
European  race  in  the  bonds  of  a  mysticism 
foreign  to  its  genius. 

The  Renaissance  was  rightly  named  a 
new  birth.  Out  of  the  womb  of  this  long 
night  arose  once  again  the  mind  of  the 
West  in  its  natural  shape.  Slowly  beauty, 
knowledge,  health,  regained  their  old  em 
pire.  Life  grew  in  importance,  and  the 
futile,  millennial-long  struggle  against  death 
began  to  seem  what  it  truly  was  —  a  mere 
terrified  dream  of  the  darkness. 

All  this  appears  a  long  way  around  to 
Stevenson,  but  it  is  by  this  avenue  I  travelled 
—  amid  all  those  soft  declamations  —  to 
find  him  the  typical  poet  of  the  nineteenth 
century.  Stevenson  is  pure  Roman,  not 
a  touch  of  the  Semitic  is  upon  him.  Every 
line  of  his  prose  and  verse  attests  it.  Some 
one  said  the  other  day  that  Hardy  was  not 
so  much  a  pagan  as  a  "revolted  Christian," 
and  brought  as  a  charge  against  him  that  he 
did  not  resent  the  hard  fates  of  the  char 
acters  in  his  books.  The  second  charge, 
of  course,  contradicts  the  first.  It  was  the 
294 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

Eastern  rebellion  against  Fate  —  against 
things  as  they  are  —  that  nourished  its 
mysticism.  But  however  one  may  decide 
as  to  Hardy  there  is  no  uncertainty  as  to 
Stevenson.  His  relish  for  life  —  life  with 
all  its  pains  and  limitations  —  was  keen 
to  ecstasy.  He  leaves  no  dubiety  on  that 
head.  Here  was  no  wish  for  a  city  of  gold 
and  pearl,  fenced  from  care,  in  which  to 
take  the  refuge  of  ease  in  an  impossible 
Elysium.  His  "House  Beautiful"  was 

"A  naked  house,  a  naked  moor" 

and 

—  "the  incomparable  pomp  of  Eve" 

was  all  he  asked  to  make  desirable  "this 
earth,  our  hermitage." 

That  this  life  leads  to  nothing  more  does 
not  daunt  him. 

"On  every  hand  the  roads  begin, 
And  people  walk  with  zeal  therein, 
But  wheresoe'er  the  highways  tend 
Be  sure  there's  nothing  at  the  end." 

To  which  he  adds  cheerfully: 

"Hail  and  farewell!     I  must  arise, 

Leave  here  the  fatted  cattle, 
And  paint  on  foreign  lands  and  skies 
My  Odyssey  of  battle. 

295 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

"The  untented  Cosmos  my  abode, 

I  pass,  a  wilful  stranger; 
My  mistress  still  the  open  road 
And  the  bright  eyes  of  danger. 

"Come  ill  or  well,  the  Cross,  the  Crown, 

The  rainbow,  or  the  thunder, 
I  fling  my  soul  and  body  down 
For  God  to  plow  them  under." 

He  will  allow  no  mistake  as  to  the  pur 
pose  of  his  existence.  He  cares  not  what 
may  lie  beyond  the  portals  of  an  undreaded 
death,  but  this  bright,  present  existence  is 
for  manful  struggle;  a  struggle  not  main 
tained  in  hope  of  future,  or  terror  of  punish 
ment,  but  because  he  loves  not  only 

"Flowers  in  the  garden,  meat  in  the  hall, 
A  bin  of  wine,  a  spice  of  wit, 
A  house  with  lawns  enclosing  it, 
A  living  river  by  the  door, 
A  nightingale  in  the  sycamore"  — 

but  loves  also  to 


Climb 


Where  no  undubbed  civilian  dares, 
In  my  war-harness,  the  loud  stairs 
Of  honour " 

Nothing  so  moves  his  scorn  as  the  lazy 

maggot  who   shuts  himself  into  the   snug 

nut  of  his  religion  and  concern  himself  only 

to   save   his  own   poor,  unimportant   little 

296 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

soul.  Hear  the  call  of  his  "Lady  of  the 
Snows'*  to  the  pallid  monks  uttering  prayers 
and  memento  mori.  And  Stevenson  speaks 
as  does  he  who  knows.  It  is  easy  enough 
for  those  sitting  cozily  at  home  to  talk  loudly 
of  war  and  danger,  but  this  was  a  man  who 
literally  fought  with  death  daily.  An  ex 
tract  from  one  of  his  private  letters,  written 
shortly  before  the  end,  says: 

"For  fourteen  years,  I  have  not  had  a 
day's  real  health;  I  have  wakened  sick  and 
gone  to  bed  weary;  and  I  have  done  my 
work  unflinchingly.  I  have  written  in  bed, 
and  written  out  of  it,  written  in  hemor 
rhages,  written  in  sickness,  written  torn  by 
coughing,  written  when  my  head  swam  for 
weakness;  and  for  so  long,  it  seems  to  me 
I  have  won  my  wager  and  recovered  my 
glove.  I  am  better  now,  have  been,  rightly 
speaking,  since  first  I  came  to  the  Pacific; 
and  still,  few  are  the  days  when  I  am  not 
in  some  physical  distress.  And  the  battle 
goes  on  —  ill  or  well,  is  a  trifle ;  so  as  it 
goes.  I  was  made  for  a  contest,  and  the 
Powers  have  so  willed  that  my  battlefield 
should  be  this  dingy,  inglorious  one  of  the 
bed  and  the  physic  bottle.  At  least  I  have 
297 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

not  failed,  but  I  would  have  preferred  a 
place  of  trumpetings  and  the  open  air  over 
my  head." 

And  after  a  desperate  illness,  when  he  rose 
gasping  from  the  waters  of  extinction,  his 
first  cry  on  feeling  the  earth  beneath  his 
feet  once  more  were  those  brave  verses 
"Not  Yet  my  Soul." 

He  was  not  upborne  by  any  of  that  so 
amazing  sense  of  superiority  to  the  rest  of 
the  universe  which  has  aided  vain  humanity 
to  minimize  its  defeats.  He  knew  how 
small  was  his  place  in  what  Carlyle  calls 
"the  centre  of  immensities,  the  conflux  of 
eternities."  Hear  him  paint  what  he  calls 
his  "Portrait,"  and  he  reiterated  that  his 
noblest  impulses  were  akin  to  "a  similar 
point  of  honour  which  sways  the  elephant, 
the  oyster,  and  the  louse,  of  whom  we 
know  so  little." 

Finally,  in  the  famous  Christmas  Sermon 
he  sums  up  in  prose  the  thoughts  that 
breathe  through  all  the  varying  cadence  of 
his  verse  — 

"Whether  we  regard  life  as  a  lane  lead 
ing  to  a  dead  wall  —  a  mere  bag's  end,  as 
the  French  say  —  or  whether  we  think  of  it 
298 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

as  a  vestibule  or  gymnasium  where  we  wait 
our  turn  and  prepare  our  faculties  for  some 
nobler  destiny  .  .  .  whether  we  look  justly 
for  years  of  health  and  vigour,  or  are  about 
to  mount  into  a  bath  chair  as  a  step  towards 
the  hearse,  —  in  each  and  all  of  these  situa 
tions  there  is  but  one  conclusion  possible; 
that  a  man  should  stop  his  ears  to  para 
lyzing  terror,  and  run  the  race  that  is  set 
before  him  with  a  single  mind." 

In  that  Sermon  is  all  the  philosophy  of 
Greece,  the  stern  courage  of  Rome. 

DECEMBER  23. 

Strange  things  rise  up  to  us  out  of  the 
deeps.      Because    I    am    a    heathen,    and 
Apollo  is  my  god  rather  than  any   «Philistia 
other,  I  have  never  been  quite  able   be  Thou 
to  comprehend  the   powerful  ap-  Glad 

of  Me  " 

peal  the  Hebrew  Messiah  makes 
to  the  hearts  of  so  many.  The  solution  is 
to  be  found  in  this  "De  Profundis"  — 
Oscar  Wilde's  posthumous  volume.  It  is 
a  beautiful  book:  likely  to  become  a  classic 
of  our  language  by  reason  of  its  beautiful, 
limpid  English,  its  amazing  exposition  of 
the  course  of  reasoning  by  which  an  outcast 
299 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

of  humanity  reaches  peace  and  reconcilia 
tion  with  his  own  soul. 

The  man's  crime,  I  think,  was  the  result 
of  his  reluctance  to  relinquish  youth,  with 
its  passions  and  stimulations  of  the  senses. 
We  all  find  its  relinquishment  a  tragedy. 
Some  of  us  refuse  to  accept  the  slow,  cold 
enveloping  of  that  cruel  serpent  of  Time, 
which  squeezes  out  of  us  our  beauty,  our 
vigour,  our  warmth,  and  leaves  us  pallid  and 
eviscerated  before  devouring  us  entirely. 
Wilde,  whose  whole  existence  was  the  pur 
suit  of  passion  and  beauty,  violently  resent 
ing  the  fact  that  with  the  lapse  of  years  he 
was  no  longer  able  to  wake  the  old  thrill  of 
existence  by  any  of  the  old  methods  —  find 
ing  that  poetry,  art,  and  the  beauty  of 
women  all  left  him  more  and  more  jaded 
and  cold,  he  grasped  at  vice  as  a  means  of 
heat,  and  brought  himself  within  the  iron 
clutch  of  the  law.  One  can  guess,  even  with 
out  the  aid  of  his  own  confessions,  at  the 
hysterical  rage  of  this  sybaritic  dandy  caught 
in  the  grim  trap  of  the  reprobation  of  So 
ciety.  Not  only  the  physical  discomforts  and 
restraints  bore  heavily,  but  more  intoler 
able  was  the  contempt  and  disgust  of  the 
300 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

average  man — the  Philistine — to  whom  he 
had  always  held  himself  airily  and  scorn 
fully  superior.  The  old  primal  laws  of  the 
struggle  for  life  lie  too  deep  for  even  the 
boldest  of  us  to  lightly  face  universal  con 
demnation.  The  worst  of  rebels  and  cynics 
is  so  dependent  upon  the  countenance  of 
his  fellows  that  when  good-will  is  with 
drawn  a  sort  of  madness  of  despair  falls 
upon  him,  and  this  vain,  sensitive  poet 
makes  it  plain  how  the  passionate  protest 
of  the  ordinary  criminal  was  in  his  case 
intensified  to  ecstasy.  One  sees  the  poor 
creature,  like  a  rat  in  a  cage,  darting  hither 
and  thither,  and  shivering  with  sick  and 
furious  helplessness  at  the  rigidity  of  the 
barriers  by  which  the  world  had  shut  him 
away  from  any  further  part  in  the  body 
corporate. 

In  the  last  exhaustion  of  his  grief  a  light 
dawned  for  him.  There  was  one  who  had 
protested  against  these  laws  of  reprobation 
which  Society  had  codified  —  one  who  had 
mercy  for  the  sinner;  who  had  insisted 
that  the  suffering  and  sorrow  experienced 
by  those  not  conforming  themselves  to  the 
pattern  Society  demanded  regenerated  the 
301 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

victims  of  sorrow,  and  they  became  of  more 
worth  than  those  who  condemned  them. 
Here  was  a  means  of  regaining  his  own  peace 
with  himself.  Here  was  a  way  out  of  his 
imprisonment  in  the  scorn  of  his  fellows. 

Mary  Magdalen,  because  of  her  sumptu 
ous  repentance,  was  of  more  value  than  the 
busy  and  virtuous  Martha.  The  Prodigal 
Son  was  more  welcome  than  the  patient 
home-keeper.  The  lost  sheep  was  the  really 
important  member  of  the  flock.  The  re 
pentant  thief  was  the  heir  of  Paradise.  The 
sinning  woman  was  bid  go  in  peace.  All 
the  offenders  against  the  laws  of  Society 
were  welcomed:  the  dull  walkers  in  the 
beaten  path  were  contumeliously  branded 
as  Philistines  and  Pharisees.  At  once,  by 
this  point  of  view,  the  prisoner  was  freed 
from  his  cell.  It  was  possible  to  stand  up 
right  once  more  and  return  frown  for  frown 
with  his  judges.  All  these  were  redeemed 
by  their  "beautiful  moment" — ?  Well, 
let  him  too  have  his  beautiful  moment  and 
he  was  really  of  more  worth  than  those  who 
had  condemned  him. 

Here  is  the  secret  of  the  hold  the  Hebrew 
thinker  has  had  upon  humanity. 
302 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

When  our  race  slowly  began  to  stand  up 
on  their  hind  legs  and  to  live  a  life  in  com 
mon,  they  found  —  as  the  ants  and  bees 
had  done  before  them  —  that  the  common 
life  was  only  to  be  made  feasible  by  adopting 
some  general  law  of  behaviour  which  would 
enable  individuals  to  assimilate;  and  so 
morals  and  conscience  had  their  generation. 
A  man  might  never  leave  his  home  if  the 
tribe  would  not  accept  it  as  an  evil  to  steal; 
might  never  sleep  in  peace  if  murder  were 
not  a  crime;  would  not  feed  his  children 
were  there  not  a  rule  against  adultery  which 
ensured  him  against  assuming  duties  to 
cuckoos.  How  bitter,  slow,  and  toil 
some  was  that  upward  struggle  to  subdue 
for  the  good  of  the  mass  the  lusts  of  the 
individual  all  history  relates.  Always  a 
remnant  have  protested  against  these  hard 
exactions  of  the  general  good  at  their  ex 
pense.  Always  the  tribe  has,  for  its  own 
safety,  slain,  imprisoned,  cast  out  the  rebels. 
The  war  is  not  over  yet;  will,  possibly, 
never  end.  Always  those  who  prefer  their 
own  ends  will  strive  to  find  justification  for 
their  wilfulness;  will  seek  some  ground  for 
answering  scorn  with  scorn  —  and  their  vo- 
303 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

ciferousness,  their  lofty,  sentimental  phrases 
confuse  the  minds  of  the  slow-witted. 

Alas!  dear  Philistine — what  contumely 
you  suffer  at  the  hands  of  the  revolted! 
You  have  grown  apologetic  for  your  virtues, 
which  the  idealists  cast  in  your  teeth  as  a 
reproach.  You  are  so  foolish  you  cannot 
eat  of  the  fruit  of  desire  and  at  once  make 
it  as  though  it  had  never  been  by  one 
"beautiful  moment"  of  emotion.  You  are 
so  stupid  you  cannot  content  the  neighbour 
who  owned  the  fruit  by  accusing  him  of 
being  hard  because  your  repentance  does 
not  satisfy  him  for  his  loss.  You  are 
"stodgy";  you  are  "narrow."  You  are 
bitter  and  untender  because  you  worship 
the  God  of  Things  as  They  Are,  instead  of 
accepting  a  theism  of  Things  as  They 
Might  Be.  Of  course  you  really  rule  the 
world,  and  when  your  critics  become  too 
aggressive  your  logic  of  stone  walls  and 
iron  bars  makes  a  trenchant  reply,  but  you 
are  very  inarticulate.  No  one  gives  you 
credit  for  your  patient,  dull  self-restraint. 
You  almost  apologize  to  the  scoffers  for 
your  persistent  moral  drudgery.  You  talk 
very  little  about  the  temptations  you  have 
304 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

resisted  —  so  much  less  dramatic  than  sins 
against  your  fellows  histrionically  washed 
away  by  repentant  tears.  Your  painful 
drudging  up  the  path  of  obvious  duty 
dazzles  and  touches  no  one. --But  I,  at 
least,  love  and  respect  you  —  you  poor  old 
self-denying  Pharisee! 

DECEMBER  24. 

Oh,  King!  —  great  King  „  Qh  R 

Afar  in  that  pleasant  place  —  T  .      ,, 

,C1       .       .    rA  Live  Forever!" 

(bleeping  in  Avalon, 

Island  of  Queens  — ) 

What  are  thy  dreams  ? 

Where  no  sound  cometh  at  all 

Save  the  lapping  of  waves, 

Of  the  lake's  waves  lapping  the  shore; 

And  the  moving  of  winds 

Stirring  a  rustle  and  ripple  of  leaves  — 

An  infinite  rustle  and  ripple  of  leaves  — 

And  lifting  a  little,  a  little  thy  wide-strewn  hair 

Fadeless  and  gold  — 

What  are  thy  dreams  ? 

There  where  no  bird  sings, 

Nor  is  any  bruit  by  thy  head 

Save  only  the  singing  of  Queens  — 

Seven   and   sad  — 

Singing  of  swords  and  of  war, 

Singing  of  Carleon  — 

Singing  a  magical  lay, 

Sweeter  than  lutes, 

A  song  made  of  magic  by  Merlin 

Dead  in  the  wood.  .  .  . 

What  are  thy  dreams,  oh  King!  — 

Arthur  —  thy  dreams  ? 

305 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

Tristram  is   dead,  and  Gawain. 

Galahad  gone,  and  Sir  Bors. 

Merlin  is  dead  in  the  wood. 

The  base  peasant  tramples  the  mire 

That  once  was  the  heart  and  the  lips 

Of  Mordred  the  base  and  the  liar. 

The  wind  of  the  Breton  coast, 

Stormy  and  sad, 

Has  blown  for  a  thousand  years 

The  dust  of  that  Knight  — 

Launcelot's  dust  — 

Dust  of  his  bones  — 

To  and  fro  in  the  roads  — 

And  the  dust  of  his  sword 

Blows  in  the  eyes  of  brave  men  passing  that  way 

And  stings  them  to  tears. 

Oh,  dread  King,  what  are  thy  dreams  ? 

Guinevere  is  but  a  name  — 

Frail,  and  lovely,  and  sad. 

All  whom  thou  lovedst  are  gone. 

Beauty  availed  them  not; 

Courage,  nor  pride,  nor  desire. 

The  sound  of  their  singing  is  dumb; 

The  sword  is  broken  in  twain; 

Magic  to  folly  is  turned; 

Even  love  might  not  avail. 

Only  the   King  liveth  still  — 

Only  the  King 

Liveth  and  dreams. 

Only  the  heart  above  self  — 

Only  the  heart  steadfast  and  wise 

Liveth  forever  in  Avalon, 

Hearing  a  song 

Always  of  swords  and  of  war, 

But  dreaming  of  Peace, 

Dreaming  of  Honour,  oh  King! 

Dreaming  great  dreams. 

306 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

JANUARY  i. 

I  remember  that  long  ago  when  I  used 
to  be  made  to  memorize  Campbell's  senti 
mental  lines  on  The  Exile,  beginning, 

"There  came  to  the  beach  a  poor  exile  of  Erin"  — 

they  only  called  forth  my  unsympathetic 
infantile  jeers;  but  last  spring  I  went  home. 
Suddenly,  as  we  passed  along  the  The 
tawny  marshes  lying  like  great  Little 
dun  lions  by  the  edge  of  the  misty 
gulf,  I  realized  that  for  twenty  discon 
tented  years  I  too  had  been  suffering 
the  pangs  of  the  Exile.  Memories  and 
emotions,  so  long  disused  as  to  be  almost 
forgotten,  boiled  up  with  the  impetuosity 
of  geysers.  Possessions  of  my  secret  life 
that  I  think  I  was  never  really  conscious 
of  at  all  came  to  life.  I  haven't  the  least 
idea,  for  example,  why  the  buoyant  feathery 
boughs  of  the  first  Southern  cedar  I  saw 
made  me  strongly  wish  to  weep  lovely, 
sentimental  tears,  but  I  knew  at  once  why 
I  had  invariably  felt  bored  with  the  con 
ventional  admiration  of  mountains.  Why, 
indeed,  should  scenery  only  be  important 
when  perpendicular  ?  To  my  mind,  to  have 
307 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

the  landscape  getting  up  on  its  hind  legs  and 
hiding  the  view  is  simply  tiresome.  Here 
one  could  see  everything  —  could  open 
one's  lungs  and  breathe  what  the  Creoles 
used  to  call  la  grande  air,  and  let  one's  heart 
go  out  to  the  land. 

You  blessed  mother  country!  Those 
people  where  I  have  lived  so  long  seem  not 
to  care  particularly  for  their  birthplaces. 
Their  patriotism  is  satisfied  by  an  immense 
political  abstraction  and  a  striped  flag.  I 
have  always  suspected  that  if  one  took  off 
the  heads  of  such  folk  and  looked  down 
inside  one  would  find  inside  only  wheels 
and  coiled  springs,  instead  of  flesh  and 
blood.  David  Yandell  used  to  say,  "I'm 
for  the  Yandells  against  the  whole  world, 
but  if  it's  between  the  Yandells  and  Dave, 
then  I'm  for  Dave!"  One  might  be  for 
that  political  abstraction  against  the  world, 
but  between  that  abstraction  and  Louisiana, 
then  I'm  for  Louisiana. 

I  began  to  suspect  too  that  some  of  my 
heresies  and  revolts  had  really  been  caused 
by  the  bitterness  of  exile,  though  from  the 
very  beginning  I  have  seen  the  King  without 
his  mantle.  When  my  elders  handed  out 
308 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

to  me  the  accepted  platitudes  in  answer  to 
my  early  attempts  to  realize  the  world  in 
which  I  moved,  I  stared  at  them  "in  a  wild 
surmise,"  the  aforesaid  conventionalities 
appearing  to  me  to  be  so  at  variance  with 
the  facts  as  I  saw  them.  They  appeared 
to  me  —  these  elders  —  to  be  imagining  a 
King's  cloak  to  cover  the  world  as  it  really 
was;  to  be  neglecting  and  minimizing  the 
things  really  worth  while;  to  be  inventing 
ideals  and  standards  not  in  themselves 
noble. 

I  struggled  long  against  the  mask  and 
domino  which  muffled  words  and  impeded 
action,  but  time  and  the  years  have  made 
me  more  patient.  I  have  grown  to  see  that 
they  may  have  their  uses.  The  average 
man  shrinks  aghast  from  the  naked  truth, 
even  when  it  is  beautiful.  There  is  a  sort 
of  universal  prudery  that  shrinks  from  the 
nude  in  life  as  well  as  in  art.  Perhaps  these 
universal  draperies  cover  as  much  that  is 
repulsive  as  it  does  of  the  beautiful. 

Verestchagin,   the   Russian   painter  who 

was  blown   up   on  the   Petropalovsk,  had 

three  pictures  with  him  when  he  was  in  this 

country  that  conveyed  to  me  a  much  needed 

3°9 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

lesson.  He  called  them  "Christ  in  the 
Wilderness,"  ;'The  Sermon  on  the  Mount," 
and  "The  Cursing  of  Jerusalem."  — A 
haggard  boy  fleeing  to  the  desert  for  medi 
tation  upon  the  tragedies  of  existence,  for 
which  he  is  sure  there  must  be  some  panacea 
if  one  could  only  think  it  out;  the  tri 
umphant  youth  announcing  to  humanity 
the  solution  of  all  its  difficulties;  and  the 
disappointed  man  crying  reproachfully  to 
the  heedless  multitude  preferring  its  own  old 
way  —  "how  often  would  I  have  gathered 
thy  children  together  as  a  hen  doth  gather 
her  brood  under  her  wings,  and  ye  would 
not!" 

As  time  cools  our  cocksureness,  more 
and  more  is  one  willing  to  let  the  world  go 
its  own  gait  and  retire  into  one's  secret 
life ;  and  there  comes  at  last  one  day  a  reve 
lation  of  the  meaning  of  it  all,  and  this 
revelation  brings  peace  and  poise.  The 
four  walls  of  character  and  environment 
are  an  unescapable  prison.  Heroic  effort 
will  not  open  a  door  or  break  through  its 
blank  solidity.  One  may  look  out  upon  the 
world  from  one's  little  room,  but  there  one 
must  live  one's  appointed  time.  In  youth 
310 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

one  does  not  understand  or  accept  this: 
then  anything  seems  possible  of  expansion 
or  change,  but  veillesse  savait. 

Once  this  is  accepted  —  not  by  word 
alone,  but  mentally  grasped  and  realized  — 
the  disordered,  confusing  bits  of  existence 
fall  at  once  into  an  ordered  pattern.  Life 
must  be  lived  in  the  Little  Room.  Others 
may  not  enter;  one's  self  may  not  escape. 
Action  falls  within  its  space  and  can,  there 
fore,  be  calmly  ordered  and  planned.  One 
will  not  undertake  aught  that  is  impossible 
within  its  compass,  and  struggle,  discon 
tent,  and  confusion  are  therefore  at  an  end. 
And  within  this  inviolate  enclosure  one  is 
safe  and  private.  To  those  regarding  it 
from  without  its  appearance  is  much  like 
that  of  all  the  other  cubicles,  but  inside,  if 
one  chooses,  it  may  be  richly  hung, 
sumptuously  adorned,  with  the  treasures  of 
one's  secret  life.  Odd,  outworn  weapons 
of  opinion  may  give  a  martial  touch  to  the 
walls  here  and  there;  treasures  brought  up 
from  the  deep  may  speak  of  the  wild  winds 
of  young  fancy,  and  taste  yet  of  the  salt  of 
long  dried  tears.  Soft  imaginings  may  invite 
the  weary  head,  fine  embroideries  wrought 
311 


THE    SECRET   LIFE 

from  the  many-coloured  threads  of  life 
may  lie  beneath  the  foot.  The  prison  is, 
should  one  choose  it,  a  palace. 

Long  ago,  of  a  summer  morning,  thread 
ing  with  soundless  paddle  and  slow-sliding 
canoe  one  of  the  quiet  streams  that  wound 
like  a  blue  vein  across  the  sunburned  breast 
of  those  marshes,  I  found  in  the  deep 
grasses,  that  everywhere  grew  breast  high, 
an  illimitable  garden  of  flowers.  Looked  at 
from  above  there  was  but  the  smooth,  deep 
fleece  of  verdure  —  but  thus  intimate,  close 
to  the  warm  skin  of  these  vast  salt  prairies, 
thousands  of  beautiful  freakish  blossoms 
revealed  themselves  —  many-tinted,  heavy 
as  wax,  fragile  as  cobwebs,  perfumed, 
fantastic,  multitudinous.  .  .  . 

I  stared  a  little,  pondering,  and  then 
passed  on  carelessly  about  my  childish 
business,  unrealizing  that  I  had  found 
a  picture  and  a  parable  to  hang,  after 
many  years,  upon  the  walls  of  my  Little 
Room. 

JANUARY  2. 

If  it  might  be,  Life's  harvest  being  past, 

A,        ',          rr-  ru         i       Aftermath. 

And  past  the  perfect  fruitage  of  the  soul, 

I  yet  might  gather  up  some  small  sweet  dole 
312 


THE   SECRET   LIFE 

From  out  Time's  fingers  in  the  wide  fields  cast  — 

If  it  might  be  that  though  from  out  the  vast 

Blue  spaces  all  the  tides  of  light  did  roll, 

There  yet  might  linger  some  pale  aureole 

To  faintly  flush  my  western  sky  at  last  — 

I  would  forbear  youth's  lordly  large  demands, 

Nor  swallow  tears  at  sight  of  loaded  wains 

Of  others  who  all  full  and  rich  did  go; 

Content  that  I,  no  more  with  empty  hands, 

Might  bear  across  the  level  darkening  lands 

My  sweet  few  sheaves  home  through  the  afterglow. 


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